Monday, May 10, 2004
Infidelity must be in the jeans
Like most men, I absolutely hate shopping. Now by shopping I'm not talking about the selection of the right drapes or looking for the best price for Creatine online. No, this is the mindless and arbitrary wandering around the malls, strip malls, and other mall-like mercantiles in America in search of the best fitting shorts.
Obviously this isn't an activity that men typically engage in alone. usually, and my case is no different, it involves being tricked into following your wife or girlfriend around countless retailers telling her how she would look in everything on the racks having no clue whether she'll walk out looking like Helen of Troy or a pox-ridden wildebeest. though chances are she's going to walk out looking like your wife or girlfriend in another pair of fucking shorts just like the last ten pair. The trick part is the self-developed hope that you might get the opportunity to nail her in the dressing room, or at least rack up caring companion points for when you get home.
But during yesterday's venture to a new American wonder of consumerism, the OUTLET MALL (cue the heavenly choir), I was struck by an odd realization: if men are privy to the constant dressing and undressing of our girls surrounded by the public dressing and undressing of countless other girls, musn't there be some linking in our minds between shopping and the imagining of other women's naked bodies? I mean there we sit, men I mean, on stools, chairs, the floor, whatever waiting for our ladies to emerge and ask our opinions on the potential new duds. All the while, there are the bare feet of other women just feet from you engaging in an activity that in any other venue, would be considered foreplay. Skirts being slipped off and on, the sounds of cloth falling to the floor and slight foot movements that can only be mirror poses. All this is happening just inches from where your girl is doing the same. In my case, we're talking about my wife of six years, Nina.
This is usually where the time passes more bearably, in the midst of impulsive fascination. I mean who among us hasn't seen TV or movie scenes involving dressing room sex? it's practically a voyeur's lapdance booth. But I see my wife changing clothes practically every day. This is different; it's naughty and primal. While I would never act out on any thought I have in these places, it seems that these fantasies are an unavoidable impulse of the male mind. And therefore, our girls are bringing us to a place where we end up doing an entirely different kind of shopping. Right about now my left thumb instinctively begins to rub the underside of my weddding band, reminding me of my vows of faithfulness and several other intangibles. Perhaps this is the real torture of shopping. Sure, the mind-numbing, soul-sapping repitition is a drag. But if a committed man is brought by his girl to a place where other, sometimes fabulous looking, women will be undressing couldn't that be a sort of subconscious slap in the face? I'll sleep on that one. Right next to my wife.
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Obviously this isn't an activity that men typically engage in alone. usually, and my case is no different, it involves being tricked into following your wife or girlfriend around countless retailers telling her how she would look in everything on the racks having no clue whether she'll walk out looking like Helen of Troy or a pox-ridden wildebeest. though chances are she's going to walk out looking like your wife or girlfriend in another pair of fucking shorts just like the last ten pair. The trick part is the self-developed hope that you might get the opportunity to nail her in the dressing room, or at least rack up caring companion points for when you get home.
But during yesterday's venture to a new American wonder of consumerism, the OUTLET MALL (cue the heavenly choir), I was struck by an odd realization: if men are privy to the constant dressing and undressing of our girls surrounded by the public dressing and undressing of countless other girls, musn't there be some linking in our minds between shopping and the imagining of other women's naked bodies? I mean there we sit, men I mean, on stools, chairs, the floor, whatever waiting for our ladies to emerge and ask our opinions on the potential new duds. All the while, there are the bare feet of other women just feet from you engaging in an activity that in any other venue, would be considered foreplay. Skirts being slipped off and on, the sounds of cloth falling to the floor and slight foot movements that can only be mirror poses. All this is happening just inches from where your girl is doing the same. In my case, we're talking about my wife of six years, Nina.
This is usually where the time passes more bearably, in the midst of impulsive fascination. I mean who among us hasn't seen TV or movie scenes involving dressing room sex? it's practically a voyeur's lapdance booth. But I see my wife changing clothes practically every day. This is different; it's naughty and primal. While I would never act out on any thought I have in these places, it seems that these fantasies are an unavoidable impulse of the male mind. And therefore, our girls are bringing us to a place where we end up doing an entirely different kind of shopping. Right about now my left thumb instinctively begins to rub the underside of my weddding band, reminding me of my vows of faithfulness and several other intangibles. Perhaps this is the real torture of shopping. Sure, the mind-numbing, soul-sapping repitition is a drag. But if a committed man is brought by his girl to a place where other, sometimes fabulous looking, women will be undressing couldn't that be a sort of subconscious slap in the face? I'll sleep on that one. Right next to my wife.
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