A mall in China has installed what are being called “husband storage pods,” which contain a comfortable chair and video games to help him pass the time while she shops.
American malls and big box stores, please follow suit.
I don’t necessarily need the video games, although I wouldn’t be opposed if they had Galaga, which is an old-school arcade game I never quite mastered back in college but would still like to.
I’d be just as happy with a TV with Netflix. I’m behind on “Orange is the New Black.”
Or a book. I have about 500 unread books guilting me at home. Books are the worst at that. It’d be nice to have some time to shut one or two of them up.
I’m frankly amazed malls haven’t come up with something like this before. I know it’s a stereotype – women love to shop and men hate it – but in my case it’s most true.
My idea of shopping is asking the lovely yet formidable Marcia to pick something up for me while she’s out. It never works. “I am not picking out underwear again for you,” is her usual response, which is why I have underwear older than my kids.
One of these days I’m going to have to break down and go to JC Penney myself, which I think is where I last bought underwear in 1994, although I hear a lot of those are closing.
When I do, there will be no messing around. I am a very focused clothes shopper. If I need underwear, I go straight to the underwear department, and nowhere else. I do not look at socks. That’s another trip. I do not dally in the shoe section or allow myself to be waylaid by jeans or shirts. I figure I can get a few more years out of the jeans and shirts I already have, which is why I look like a particularly down on his luck hobo most of the time.
I also do not waste time on selection. I will not consider tighty-whities – what am I, a 6-year-old? I will not look at boxer briefs. I’m not into hybrids. I most certainly will not get bikini briefs – the world has enough troubles. Instead l grab a 3-pack of my usual boxers. No pattern, if possible. Same brand as always, if possible. Then I’m out of there. Five minutes tops. I do not “shop.” I “buy.” It’s one of my best traits, I think.
Marcia, on the other hand, is a shopper. She has a master’s degree in it, in fact. To her shopping is recreational, therapeutic, communal, competitive and strategic, all at the same time.
Fine. I’m not going to judge. I just can’t do it. It’s just not in my nature, as I’ve explained, but I also happen to have a serious medical condition called “mall foot.”
Mall foot is a sharp, painful ache that starts in the arches and radiates up the shins, forcing me to find one of those benches outside the store. A lot of guys get this. It’s a real thing. Swear to god. Ask a doctor, preferably a male doctor.
Although Marcia doesn’t buy it.
“It doesn’t seem to bother you when you’re playing racquetball with your buddies,” she says.
I know. It’s the damnedest thing. Medical science will find a cure someday, I’m sure.
But I hope not in my lifetime.