A birthday outing

The Hero was given permission this year to plan my birthday outing, and as usual he had some surprises up his sleeve, one of which was that we did NOT go to Lowe's this time. Last year on my birthday, after a fine evening, which he had planned, of dinner and coffee, he felt that something was missing. That something turned out to be a half hour or so of looking at hex flange nuts (metric) and variable speed cordless drills (with case).


While we were there, he noted that there was another couple in the store who were celebrating their anniversary, and remarked that at least he hadn't brought me there on our anniversary.


He sounded wistful about that.


But this year there were no hex nuts in confusing metric measurements. Instead, the Hero made the supreme sacrifice of shopping with me at stores I like -- stores known to him and to my brother as "frou-frou stores." These are establishments that, in many males, cause extreme allergic reactions, such as the formation of hairballs. So when the Hero gamely went in with me to several such establishments, I took it as a sign of his complete devotion. Or possibly he was taking anti-hairball medication.


We also went into a store that, at any one time, has every possible inch of space crammed with party dresses. Whenever we pass or go into this shop, the Hero and I engage in the same script: He asks if I would like one of the dresses, and I demur by saying they never have my size. Although this is true -- I have personally checked about three of the numerous ones they carry, and those three were not my size -- mostly I am not interested in these dresses because a) there is not much fabric to them, and b) you must walk from the dressing room on one side of the store to the mirror on the other side if you wish to see how a dress looks on you, and you are in plain view of other customers, all of whom have nothing better to do than stare at you and silently critique your figure. 


It is easier to tell the Hero that they do not carry my size.


But the Hero, not understanding this, changed the script a little this time:


Hero: Would you like one of those dresses?
Me (sighing): They never have my size.
Hero, to salesperson who is about 12 years old (possibly 12 1/2): Hey, you don't have any sundresses in her size, do you?
Me: (Wish for hole to open up in floor.)


The Hero, with the remarkable perception that comes from observing his wife, behind the salesperson's back, make frantic "No! Stop!" gestures, immediately discerned that this was something he Should Not Have Done, although he had no idea why he Should Not Have Done It.


And so I found myself in the dressing room with all manner of inappropriate dresses -- picked out for me by the 12- or possibly 12 1/2-year-old salesperson -- and pretending to try them on ("How are we doing in there?" "Fine, fine." "Any luck?" "Nope, no luck, what a shame"). I refused to set foot outside the dressing room, despite the Hero's assurances that no one else was in the store, although I finally relented with one dress mainly because both the Hero and the salesperson seemed so disappointed.


We finally made our escape from the store while the salesgirl was distracted with someone else who did not mind parading in front of the mirror and other customers. I contemplated on the thought that perhaps this little incident was my punishment for having made the Hero endure so many frou-frou shops.


And my contemplation continues. Our anniversary is in a few weeks. Might a visit to Lowe's be on the menu?