Today I engage in tradition. A rite of passage known to men worldwide. It is a trial of patience, a mark of bravery, a test of stamina. Many have gone before me, many more to follow. Most fall by the way side, claiming defeat. Their names fade into history’s trash heap. Those who succeed, passing the gauntlet, become legends in their own right, virtually ensuring status prime among their testators, alpha dog among the pack.
What of this gauntlet? What act so cruel can claim victory over the better part of our noble sex? The gods of history shout in accord, “On the six day thou shalt shop with women.”
I sit here in a hard, faux leather seat in yet another clothing store waiting for her to try on the seventh pair of jeans, already knowing the events about to transpire. She will emerge from the dressing room, her nose crunched, shoulders rolled forward. Inevitably something will be wrong with the cut, the color, the material. At which point I will have to agree in such a way as to engender confidence. “Yeah, those jeans flatten your butt too much.”
There is a balance that a man must maintain to navigate this first obstacle. Too critical and she will assume you think that she is the problem, not the garment in question. Not critical enough and she will assume her tastes are being impuned. Either way, the wound will fester for days. She will pick at the scab until the infection becomes too strong for her to bear. She will lash out at you when you least expect it. Fail to maintain the balance, and there will be hell to pay.
The next obstacle is the boredom. We all have seen him. The man leaning against a wall as though the structural integrity of the entire mall depends on him holding up that very wall at that very time in that very place. Interrupt his efforts and he is liable admit defeat and exit the mall independent of his date.
How long have men engaged in this tradition? I scan the room and imagination takes the wheel. Time begins to tick in reverse. Faster and faster.
I’m in a cave, loins girded in animal skins. Fellow neanderthal men gather around the carved stone seating area, spears checked at the door. A selection of scant leather garments hang on racks made of sticks and lashings. Cave women wearing matching loincloths, lanyards strung around their necks holding fast to small wood plaques showing their names. Cave drawings and pictographs label exchange rates for the leather garments on display. The matching women banter with each other while delivering garments back and forth between the displays and a set of small rooms carved out of the wall in the back of the cave. Rawhide blocks the occupants from my view. Garments are passed back and forth over the curtain.
I shift my gaze back to the men. The strongest, obviously afraid the cave is going to collapse, supports the wall with his massive body. He’s taking his job seriously, common sense tells me not to disturb him. Another man is walking aimlessly talking into a banana. The rest just stare innocuously into space, either too exhausted or too bored to acknowledge my presence.
A woman approaches the man holding up the wall. He feigns a smile. She spins, showing off the garment, her nose crunched, shoulders rolled forward. He grunts, his head motions toward the wall, obviously annoyed. She walks away dejected. The man knows he will reap her wrath later. His resolve to prevent a cave-in wains. He grunts again and walks out of the cave without her.
My daydream snaps closed, time rushes to the present. She stands in front of me again wearing pair number eight. Nose crunched. Shoulders rounded.
