(Editor’s Note: Greg Bean is taking a temporary sabbatical from writing his column due to the death of his son. This column was originally printed Dec. 19, 2007).
Not long ago my wife said one of the most surprising things she’s said in over 25 years of marriage.
We’d taken a Sunday drive down to Cape May, and while I was content to just drive around, gawking at the sights, she finally orderedme to stop so we could walk through the pedestrian mall. She’d had enough of aimless driving, and wanted to get down to her real purpose of the outing. She wanted to shop.
So, like the sensitive husband I am, I found a parking place and we started ambling along. My first stop was a candy store, where I bought a bag of fudge for me and some saltwater taffy for one of the kids. Then I went outside, found a bench in the sun and waited a couple of minutes for her to join me.
“Well, that was fun,” I said, offering her some of the fudge. “What’s next? You want to drive a little farther down the shore?”
She looked at me as if I had a big, hairy caterpillar crawling across my forehead.
“That’s your limit, one store?” she asked.
“Well,” I said, looking down the mall at a whole lot of other stores that didn’t particularly interest me, “I can’t think of anything else I need.”
“You know,” she said, shaking her head sadly, “you’re a good husband and a good friend, but you’re a lousy girlfriend.”
Nearly speechless, I told her that I was perfectly happy to sit right there on the bench, watch people and nibble fudge while she shopped, and she could take all the time she wanted. So I waited, and while I watched store employees put up the … holiday decorations, I had plenty of time to think about how I could get my annual holiday column — and a day’s work — out of her observation.
Here’s what I decided. Early on in our marriage, she explained that in her family, holiday shopping trips were about much more than purchasing merchandise. They were special times that she spent with her sister and mother. They’d make a day, or — if they traveled to the “big city” mall more than 100 miles away — several days of it. They’d start in the morning and hit dozens of stores, and maybe they wouldn’t buy a thing. Then they’d enjoy lunch and talk about what they’d seen. Then they’d hit a dozen more stores, and would likely go back to the first place they’d visited and make some purchases. Then they’d have dinner, maybe go to a movie, then come home or back to their hotel and try on what they’d bought.
The fond memories of those shopping trips had the same importance to her that my memories of my father and grandfather and uncle and brothers in hunting camp had for me. And she wanted to share those joyous experiences with her new husband (me).
I suppose I could understand the whole thing on a theoretical level, but on a practical level, I was befuzzled. Like many men — and I understand I’m making sweeping generalizations here — I hate non-goal-oriented shopping. Two minutes after I walk into a department store, I get lightheaded…. I begin to suspect the people around me of evil intent. I start to sweat, my ears ring, stomach knots. I begin looking for the exits like a suburban, male baboon trapped in the La Brea tar pits.
To compensate, I becamewhat I like to call a “guerilla shopper.” To limit the time I actually have to spend in a store, I wait to make purchases until it becomes an emergency. I call ahead to make sure the store stocks the items I need. I go early to avoid the crowds. Once inside the store, I … make my purchases quickly and head for the door, running like winkin. I never buy items on impulse (almost never) and I always buy in quantity. In one trip to the menswear store, I can buy enough clothing in 20 minutes to last me six or seven years.
Needless to say, I shop for the holidays in the same fashion. I wait until the last moment, hit the mall like a Mongol invader, buy as much as I can conveniently carry in as little time as possible, and call it good. Unless she has given me a specific wish list, or shopped for her own gift, she might get pearl earrings for Christmas, or she might get a garage door opener. It all depends on how long I can hold out at the store before passing out.
In the early days of our marriage, this was a source of some contention (we tried shopping together a few times, with nearly disastrous consequences), but like most people who make successful marriages over the long haul, we adapted.
These days, not counting online, she does all the holiday shopping in our family. She starts before Thanksgiving. She talks about every one of her gift purchases with me. Sometimes, I look up from my book and listen. I nod approvingly. I don’t gripe when she’s out at the stores on weekends, and I don’t complain (much) about the cost. Come Christmas morning, I’m always pleased at how well we’ve (she’s) done at anticipating the desires of those on our gifting list, and I’m happy to take some of the credit. For some reason, she continues to let me get away with it, but I know it’s lucky for me she doesn’t grab a wassail bowl and smash my skull like a pumpkin.
… When I started today’s column, I had a vague destination in mind, and that was to somehow engender some sympathy for guys like me who find this whole season about as stressful as a visit to the proctologist. I wanted you wives out there to see how difficult we husbands really have it. But now, reading back, I see that where I was really heading was toward a long-overdue apology.
For over a quarter of a century, I suddenly realize I’ve let my long-suffering bride carry the weight for making our family holidays bright, while I sit around feeling pitiful and puny because I’m sooooo stressed. So believe me, dear wife, when I say I’m sorry, and next year, I’ll try, really try, to do better. I’ll check ads, catalogs, and scout sales. We’ll start holiday shopping on Labor Day if you want, and we’ll go to more than one store. I’ll try to be a better girlfriend. Just promise to be gentle, honey. I’m kinda new at this.
Gregory Bean is executive editor of Greater Media Newspapers. You can reach him at [email protected].