Peter McKay

I haven't kept an exact count over 25 years of marriage, but I'm pretty sure if you added up all the time I've spent at the mall, hour upon hour of standing around idly in the dress or shoe department while my wife browsed through the sale racks, holding up items and asking me what I thought, you wouldn't even bother to give me a rough total. You'd just shoot me a sad, pitying look and shake your head.

I know I'm not the only one. Sometimes I notice other hangdog husbands in the dress department, looking like they're walking the green mile. I would say hi to them, but neither one of us wants to make eye contact.

For the past couple years, however, it hasn't been too bad, mostly because our twin daughters, now 12, started volunteering to shop with my wife. At first I thought this was kind of cool, as it got me off the hook, but then I realized it was resulting in triple the store credit card bills. They've now reached the point where as they come in the door from the mall, one will distract me while the other two sprint through the front hall and run purchases up the stairs. Working in a well-oiled team, it's all over before I know it. They're like velociraptors with credit cards.

Our 14-year-old son, on the other hand, has no interest in clothes and even less interest in actually shopping for them. Like most of his friends, he owns a ratty pile of T-shirts with smart aleck sayings on them, one pair of shabby tennis shoes that smell like spoiled vegetables and three pair of jeans, all of which look alike except for the rips and tears. He gets his socks from a hamper, which might or might not have contained clean clothes. And I can't be completely sure, but I fear that he doesn't really even own his own underwear, and just borrows pairs of my boxers. It's a thought that sometimes keeps me up at night.

This past weekend, our daughters were off babysitting, and with no one to shop with, my wife grabbed me by the arm and announced we were going to the mall.

Hoping for a little male support, I grabbed our son and said he was going, too.

"Why would I go to the mall?" he asked. "I hate shopping!"

"You're my ticket out of the ladies' department," I said. "We'll look at stores you like!"

He thought for a moment, then said there weren't any stores at the mall that sold stuff he liked, but it was too late. I had him in the car.

As we walked into the department store, we didn't get more than 10 feet before my wife spied a pumpkin-colored high-waisted wool coat with hand-stitched lapels and a cute little belt in the back. She was drawn across the marble floor toward it, almost as if the coat's pockets were full of powerful electromagnets and she were wearing a full suit of armor. Having been through this so many times before, I followed, ready to nod slowly and noncommittally while avoid saying anything that might result in an installment purchase.

"This is sooo darling!" my wife cooed, turning it on the hanger. She looked at the price tag and shook her head.

"I could never spend that much money on a coat!" she groaned, turning the price tag our way. Our son took one look and gagged like he'd breathed in a fly.

I waited. And waited. Then it came.

"Of course," she said, "if you were to buy it for me, that would be different!"

I hadn't been prepared for a direct hit to the wallet, so I instantly called for a retreat. I nudged our son. The boy and I had planned to walk around the mall, I said.

As we made our escape, my son shook his head in wonder.

"I am never, ever getting married," he said.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because," he answered. "I'd have to spend every dime I made on stupid stuff like orange coats!"

"Hey, that's not true," I assured him. "A lot of the time, you just shuffle around in circles, wishing you could go home!"

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