Especially during the few remaining days before Christmas.
That’s because we go to a mall, and the very first questions we ask ourselves is:
What the heck am I doing here?
No plan. No strategy. No tactics upon which to rely.
In short: lambs being
Instead, we wander.
In search of the perfect gift that we haven’t thought about.
We walk by foreign lands with names like “Ann Taylor” or “J. Crew.”
Oh, we’ve heard of Tiffany’s, but guys know better than to get sucked in there, lest we lose our shirts: Tiffany’s is only approachable the day before Christmas if you’re really desperate.
We try to look like we have a clue, browsing and all. A helpful sales person comes up and asks, "May I help you?" and we politely state: "No thanks, just looking."
That's because guys never ask for directions: it's a sign of weakness.
So we continue, roaming. Lost. Looking at all the people who seem to have a much better plan than we do, carrying those big bags and all.
But there, like an oasis amongst the desert of untouchables, is the Apple Store. Simple. White. Comprehensible to men. Teaming with people, all looking at little expensive electronic gizmo’s like Romans amongst aphrodisiacs. Transfixed. Mesmerized. Stupefied. Like moths to a flame, they come. Drawn. And next to them stand a bunch of black-shirted skinny twenty-somethings with black-rimmed glasses wearing electronic money-suckers on their belts demonstrating the gadgets. The lowly gents mouths hand open. Small amounts of drool appear. Dripping.
Then the phone rings and terror strikes:
“Honey, are you just about done shopping? We’ve got a party in 30 minutes.”
“Uh, just about, honey. Be there soon.”
And to their terror, they realize they have to come back…
… to shop again.