When I was a child, my Saturdays were not filled with joy. No cartoons. No baseball. No running through the yard with a stick I had declared to be a sword, a lightsaber, and an anti-zombie defense device all in one. My Saturdays were reserved for a sacred ritual known in our house as shopping.
Not just any shopping; Mom and sister shopping. You have not known endurance until you’ve spent five hours trailing behind two women comparing fifty shades of beige shoes.
As a child, I believed shoes came in two styles: ones you put on your feet and ones you didn’t. But apparently, there’s a third style: ones you almost buy and then leave in a pile next to rack, muttering, “I wish they had these in taupe.”
I remember one afternoon at JCPenney that felt longer than most presidential terms. My mother and sister tried on everything – skirts, tops, dresses, shoes, belts, possibly a toaster oven – while I sat in a plastic chair shaped like a broken promise. I was ten. I had needs. Like pretzels and air conditioning. But instead, I was stuck there, trying to disappear into a rack of discounted scarves like a traumatized meerkat.
That afternoon was an eternity.
Eventually, I grew up, became a man, discovered deodorant and cynicism. Shopping with mom and sis became less frequent. I found freedom. I entered stores that catered to men. Dark, quiet places that smelled of cedar and body wash with names like “Thunderwolf” and “Crisis Response.”
I thought I was safe.
Then I got married, and the torture began anew.
Only this time, it was more sophisticated. Gone were the days of Claire’s and Limited Too. Now, I was subjected to Williams Sonoma and searches for cast iron Dutch ovens that cost more than a semester of college.
And I cared. That’s the terrifying part. I actually had opinions now.
“No, babe, I don’t think the eight-piece ceramic pan set is worth it if the handles can’t go in the oven. I mean, what if we want to sear and roast?”
Who had I become?
Then there were the questions. The questions no man is prepared for. The kind that make you feel like you’re defusing a bomb.
“Does this skirt make my hips look bad?”
Internal monologue: What is the correct answer? What is the safe answer? Is there a safe answer?
I would answer delicately, diplomatically, only for her to buy the exact opposite of what I had suggested.
“I just wanted to see what you thought,” she’d say, handing the cashier the dress that I said looked like it was designed by a hungover pilgrim.
And then I’d carry the bag.
Over the years, I grew numb to it. I’d mastered the art of standing quietly in the corner of some oddly named department store or biutique, holding a purse and trying to look like I belonged. I found ways to cope: pretending to text, counting ceiling tiles, seeing how many times I could hum the Knight Rider theme song before anyone noticed.
At least I’m not being asked to waste my Saturday replacing a perfectly operational ceiling fan, I argued to myself. That felt like growth. Maturity. Marriage.
And then, we had sons. Little boys. Innocent spirits. Joyful, Free.
Until one Saturday, I watched as they followed their mother into a candle store. They made it two steps in before their eyes glazed over like cinnamon rolls at a state fair.
“Why are there so many smells?” one whispered, clutching my leg like a child in a haunted house. I knelt down and looked him in the eye.
This is how it starts.”
I realized then that life is a cycle. Once, rites of passage for men meant hunting, battle, building fires with flint and rage. Now it’s about enduring Marshalls on a Saturday. About pretending to be excited over shams. (Pillow shams. Not like, actual lies. Though honestly, they feel like both.)
We don’t track game anymore. We track sales on cookware. We don’t bring home meat. We bring home area rugs.
It’s a rite born not out of necessity, but out of love. And I suppose that’s somehow beautiful. Maybe.
But sometimes, when I’ve been wandering behind a cart in HomeGoods for an hour, trying to understand the metaphysical difference between “seafoam green” and “ocean breeze,” I find myself yearning for a lion to fight or a mountain to climb. Anything that doesn’t involve decorative gourds.
And then I see my son, ten years old, holding a candle labeled “Autumn Whispers,” looking like he just lost custody of his soul, and I put a hand on his shoulder.
“This,” I say, “is the cost of love. Hang in there, buddy. Someday, you’ll care about ceramic pans too.”
“On that day, you will be a man.”