There I sat, helplessly, in The Man Chair.
Don’t confuse this with the infamous lounger where men devour chips and beer in front of the game. Far from a throne overlooking any suburban kingdom, this seat is reserved for the stalwart few who venture forth to malls on weekends, willingly or less so.
Look in any women's clothing store, right next to the changing rooms. There it will be, The Man Chair. In it you’ll see a hapless guy, looking worn out and impatient but, nevertheless, relieved that he was able to snag the only refuge in the place.
To whom we owe gratitude for The Man Chair is a mystery. My guess, it was a department store clerk who got sick and tired of long-faced men staring at the floor amongst the racks, hands jammed deep into their pockets to indicate their resistance to the whole affair, trying to look nonchalant while conveying irritation, mumbling too loudly about the most recent Vikings game any time another man walked by. Men everywhere are in his debt.
The Man Chair is the desperate male’s only oasis in a sea of satin blouses, strappy sandals, silk skirts and matching pumps. It’s where those of us who can only manage to match a T-shirt with an old pair of jeans can avoid being spied by some unattached male casually strolling past the women’s section. We love our wives and girlfriends, but we hate those guys. Thankfully, there is one place in the store where we can find some semblance of home – on our asses, in The Man Chair.
Only problem is, there’s usually only one Man Chair, maybe two in a big store. What good is that on a Saturday afternoon, with our women fawning over the latest in summer skirts? The competition for that one seat is vicious. On busy weekends, dozens of guys via for The Man Chair, eagle eyes peeled, anticipating the moment when the previous man vacates, waiting to pounce. Only the wily and nimble prevail.
Let’s face it. We need The Man Chair. We simply do not comprehend the goings-on of a mall. We are totally, completely, utterly out of our element.
For the male psyche, there are few phenomena more wondrous, nay, bewildering to behold than our female partners – be they wives, girlfriends or simply friends – shopping for clothes. Even proximity to the activity, just being there, makes us nervous. Then she makes it worse.
“What do you think of this?” she asks sweetly, emerging from the dressing room and trying to get a look at her behind in the mirror.
Our fathers didn’t tell us that “cute” is good if one woman says it to another, but from a man it is an insult. That to tell a woman in a normal tone or, worse yet, in barely disguised exasperation, that she looks “fine” is enough for a one-way ticket to the couch for a week.
Make no mistake. She wants us to tell her she looks beautiful, radiant, gorgeous… pick your adjective. But say an item of clothing makes her look beautiful when she thinks it makes her look fat, and you’re a dead man. Only an ignorant man says he adores something on her that she believes is unflattering. The conundrum is that flattering is defined through her personal filter and, even after all these years, we have no idea what that filter is made of. Catch-22, indeed.
We also cannot grasp how as many as a thousand items in a store can be cute but unworthy of a try-on, while others wind up in the back seat on the way home. The female rating system for rating clothing items – among many other things, I’ve learned – is highly complex.
When a man goes into a store, he knows what he wants, finds it and, if he likes it, buys it. Women “browse,” and browsing is done by feel. They can caress every item on every single rack in a store, then walk away without buying anything.
We’re simple. When we see a shirt we like, we buy it. After all, jeans match everything. But if she finds a cute blouse, it’ll still be hanging on the rack when we leave if there aren’t just the right pants or skirt to go with it. But, but… we mutter, it’s just a shirt.
So there I sit, in The Man Chair, waiting for her to ask how she looks in the next prospective item. My bride emerges modeling a fine, form-fitting blue dress. “Wow, Honey,” I say, somewhat sheepishly, “That looks fabulous.” I cringe, hoping she thinks so, too, but expecting the smack down.
This time I catch a break. “Yeah,” she says while rubbing the fabric down her thigh, “I think so, too.”
Luck. Did it come from The Man Chair? I think maybe so, and whisper a thank you to it as we leave.
Actually, with a little practice and persistence, I’ve become quite adept at mall outings. That’s what she tells me, at least, and while she’s probably just being charitable, I’ll go with it. Here are a few things I’ve learned:
• Get out of the parking lot. Listening to the ballgame on the car radio while she shops doesn’t help her, or you.
• Take an active role. Point out outfits she might like, even though you’re going out on a limb. She’ll appreciate the fact that you’re at least making an effort.
• Hold her purse, no matter how silly you feel standing there with the strap in your hand.
• Be patient. Remember…every item on every rack.
• Learn the difference between sling backs and strapless sandals.
• Smile.
I don’t presume to have all the answers. I just struggle through, like all the rest. All I can say is be the man she loves, the one who is interested in her needs, learn the lingo, spot the signs and hope for the best.
One more thing. When you see me coming, vacate The Man Chair.
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