BEING THE BEST HUSBAND I CAN BE

Click here to return to the recent columns.

I was just trying to be a good husband, one who was caring, feeling, nurturing and sensitive. You know – the kind of husband that would make me want to punch myself in the gut for being such a sissy.

Well into my second year of marriage, I have learned that I have to make some strides. When my wife and I first started dating, I was not nearly as sensitive and compassionate as I am now. I think she’s been slipping something into my drink. Perhaps estrogen.

But for some reason, the mood struck me recently. My wife and I were planning to go to a party. She had purchased a new dress, because goodness knows you can’t go to a party without a substantial dent in the charge account.

(For the record, I suggested she wear one of the dresses she never wears, such as her wedding dress, but she of course would not give in to logic.)

Anyway, for weeks leading up to the party, my wife had commented how she wanted to get a sweater to wear over the dress. I, not having shifted into sensitive mode yet, replied "Why don’t you just wear on of the six or seven thousand sweaters in your closet instead? That way, you can wear jeans and be comfortable, and we can spend our money on more important things, such as beer." It was at that point that I was given the History of Sweaters, Volumes I-IV, and how none of the current sweaters in the Sweater Battalion could fill this role and blah blah blah.

After weeks of sweater this and sweater that, the point finally sank in – she wanted a sweater. That’s when the sensitive side kicked in. I was heading out to run some errands, and I heard a little voice (no doubt a woman’s voice) say, "Hey, Mike, while you’re out, why not pick your wife up that sweater she’s been pining for? That sure oughta surprise her! And make her think you’ve done something really bad, like impregnated a stripper!"

Driven by the voice, I headed straight for a place that ranks right up there with the county tax office, the hospital, and Newark on my Places I Would Least Like To Be Scale – the mall.

I ventured into the first of what would be far too many stores. This was a woman’s apparel store. You could tell because the clerks carried with them an air of indifference that you just don’t see in a Foot Locker. There were three young women working. I opted for my usual routine when buying clothes for my wife – stand in the middle of the store looking helpless until a clerk heaps pity on me. To me, this is a far better approach than actually browsing, because there is always a chance people will think you are (a) shopping for women’s clothes for yourself or (b) too stupid to realize that this is a women’s clothing store.

That’s where today’s important lesson for store clerks comes in: Ladies, if you see a guy standing helplessly amid the blouses, go over to him, perhaps bat an eye and toss your hair back, and offer to help him. That sucker is yours right then and there. Any of the clerks could have cleaned out my checking account. I was an open checkbook standing there. I could have said I needed a sweater, and they could have talked me into buying a brand new dishwasher:

CLERK: Every woman who has one of these sweaters will be washing dishes in this new model. It’s all the rave in New York and Paris. Your wife will think you are soooooooooo sweet if you throw that in!

ME: You take Visa?

But, no. These clerks were too busy staring at various air molecules, apparently, because they just kinda dazed off into space while I stood there, waiting to sacrifice my mortgage payment for whatever they told me to buy. Eventually, I approached one of the girls and asked if they had sweaters. This was the response I got: "You mean, like, sweater sweaters?" I still have no idea what that means. I explained that my wife needed one to wear over a dress, to which the girl replied, "Oh, those. No, we don’t have those sweaters." I’m still not convinced the poor thing knows what a sweater is.

Several unsuccessful store attempts later, I staggered wearily into what would be my final store. There, a woman who will forever be known to me as The Greatest Sales Clerk Ever approached me. As I told her what I was looking for, she must have detected the desperation in my voice. In a matter of moments, she had three different sweaters in front of me to choose from. Before I could make my selection, she said, "You like this one. I’ll wrap it up."

SOLD!

Needless to say, my wife was thrilled I had been so thoughtful and sincere and considerate. Granted, I would have much rather spent the day in Newark.