It's Christmas Eve, 2011. My shopping is done and I've been breathing easily for several days now.
My wife's presents are wrapped (thanks to my daughter) and safely under the tree. I won't lie to you, it feels pretty good to be done.
As a guy, I know what it's like to Christmas shop for a woman. And not just any woman, either. I'm talking about shopping for the wife.
Look, I realize in some cases wife-shopping isn't that difficult. She tells you she wants jewelry and you go to the jewelry store and buy what she wants, no problem.
She says she wants a food processor or one of those fancy mixers, you go to Bed, Bath & Beyond (or wherever) and pick one up. Shoot, they'll even wrap it for you.
If you're rich enough, you can even go down to the local high-end car dealership and buy her a sedan. Throw a big red bow on top, have her look out the window and -- bam! -- you've just replicated a car commercial.
Ah, but what happens when she wants a sweater, or a blouse or jeans or slacks or something else that must be purchased in the women's section of the local department store? That's when things get a little dicey for the dudes.
The sizes are different, the material is frilly and what are you going to do if you have a question? Ask that cranky-looking older woman at the service desk? Um, no thanks.
Now, as a guy who's been married for more than 20 years, my blog today is something of a public service announcement to younger guys. I'm here to tell you, fellas, it gets easier.
Simply put, the older you get the less you care about venturing into the women's department. Granted, you'll always feel somewhat uncomfortable because, let's face it, we're not supposed to be there. You'll always feel like any woman within a 100-yard radius is thinking, "Hey! What's that creep doing over here in the women's department? I'll bet he's a cross dresser buying something for himself. Get security over here, stat!"
No, you'll never shake that feeling. The difference is, with a little more experience you learn where everything is and you can get in and out a lot faster.
That's what happened to me this year. I planned ahead, knew all the correct sizes and quickly surveyed the floor plan as I walked through the front door, sort of like a quarterback reading the defense.
Once I mustered up the courage to sneak into the women's department, I followed my game plan and got out of there as quickly as possible. Before I knew it, I was done.
To celebrate, I headed to the nearest gas station, bought a beef jerky and washed it down with a diet Coke.
And you know the best part? Nobody called security.
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