Every once in awhile I have twinges of wife guilt. Because it’s Saturday, and I have this burning desire to go shopping. M and I typically spend Saturdays together doing things we both enjoy, and while shopping is far from his favorite leisure activities, we usually enjoy spending quality time together engaged in shameless consumerism.
Mostly, anyway. Today is one of those days I had to tell him very nicely that I want to go it alone and for completely selfish reasons. I want to seek out Christmas gifts for my daughter and son’s girlfriend and do not desire his opinions on the subject.
M is actually pretty good about stuff like this. He has a good eye and very agreeable taste most of the time. However, there are areas where our differences will bug the living daylights out of me. I mean, seriously irritating to the point of argument later type situations. It’s ridiculous. It’s trivial. It’s not worth arguing, but he has this “I’m right, you’re wrong” tone about things he has no real experience (last time it was handbags of all things) that grates and brings out the claws and fangs. I love and adore my husband; I do not like it when he brings out my inner mean girl out for blood. Over a handbag? Seriously not worth it.
So I am plotted and executed my strategy.
I debated telling him the bald truth, that I am going to the mall to shop for gifts and do not want him around for the experience because there is a real possibility I would not enjoy it as much. But that was mean. I softened the truth, that I am going to shop for the C and K and he will be bored man walking while I browse clothing and accessories in various stores. Then he has the nerve to call me on it:
M: “So you’re ditching me to go shopping on a Saturday?” said with the good-humored, playful tone.
Me: “Yep, honey, because we do not want to have a repeat of what happened the last time you were with me in the Coach store.” said with a smile and an inward wince at the memory.
M: “Yeah, I am probably not a good handbag-shopping companion.” said with that quivering I-hate-when-my-wife-gets-irrationally-mad-at-me note.
I just smiled. That’s right, M; do not cross me when I am perusing accessories.
The last notable fight we had was over a Coach bag. Ridiculous, I know. But it was a gorgeous, expensive Coach bag, and M excessively ridiculed its simple plainness in light of it’s price tag, as husbands have the occasional tendency to do. M is not typically worried about my spending; I worry about my spending tendency enough for both of us. At the time, the words and tone used were not so much about the expense but more as M questioning and mocking my taste. In handbags. Seriously, as if M knows anything about or cares about the bag I am carrying. Maybe it was the phase of the moon, maybe it was being around so many other women feverishly shopping in the Coach store, but I took immediate and personal offense. The ensuing argument was epic for us, because we so rarely fight. But there we were, fighting. In the mall. Over a handbag I ended up not purchasing. Ridiculous.
All is well. He is outside bribing one of the fluffbuckets with cat treats and skimming the leaves out of the pool, while I am preparing to go forth and shop. If I last 2 hours on my own I will be surprised. I only have so much mall tolerance with or without M.