Gone Shopping

I’ve been praying.

A lot.

I pray for friends. I pray for family. I pray for those who need it.
But basically, I pray so I don’t go to hell. I know what hell is, and I was reminded of hell recently in what can only be described as a nightmare.

I’ve known about hell for decades. It started in my youth, and as I grew into maturity, I thought I’d overcome it with knowledge, understanding and a genuine outlook of life.

But like all demons, hell has a way of creeping back into ones life, and it has with me.

It’s shopping.

Clearance racks – the bane of my shopping existence.

Three decades ago, I was dragged – kicking, screaming, fit-throwing, you name it – into department stores with my mother pulling the tow chain. Tears streaming down my face, my mother went from one clothes rack to another, most often with the red “clearance” sign atop to draw extra attention.

Mom gave those racks her own nickname, an endearing note of affection as she hunted for bargains in Sears and JCPenney and Woolworth’s. She called them by that nickname as she approached.

“Oh, there’s ‘Clarence,’ ” she said, tunnel-vision encroaching her view. “ ‘Clarence’ is all over the place in here, honey.”

“Clarence” – the bane of my shopping existence.

Make no bones, folks, I loved my mother tremendously. I was, am and always will be a Mamma’s Boy and am proud as punch to say it.

But my mother tortured me with those ventures to the mall. Minutes seem like hours to a young boy, and my mother could examine the same “Clarence” rack for hours before deciding whether to purchase the item. Worse yet, Mom seemed to have a special affection for women’s skivvies.

Do you realize what standing alone, with your mother 10 feet away, in the “Old Women’s Underwear” section at Penney’s does to a 10-year-old boy?

The bra and panty section – the bane of my shopping existence.

As I worked myself into the teen years, and as video arcades became “The Thing” for junior high kids to do at the mall, I escaped most of Mom’s shopping torture. And you can trust me when I say that it was as much of a relief for my mother as it was for me. It had to be much easier to hand me a few $1 bills and send me on my way instead of hearing the incessant whining coming out of my mouth.

The only time I couldn’t hide from the pain was when Mom was looking specifically for clothes for me. And when Izods and Polos were it, my limpy-collared shirts came from “Clarence” – it’s worth noting that Izods and Polos were never shown by “Clarence.”

When Levis and Lees and, about 1980, Wranglers were the jeans of choice for my buddies – about the same time when Gloria Vanderbilt and Calvin Klein were tightly wrapped around the female sect – I was in the fitting room trying on another variety.
Husky jeans – the bane of my shopping existence.

As an adult, I learned the way around the nightmare. My own version of shopping tended to happen once a year. I boast that I could walk into any full-service mall in mid-December and within an hour have spent $200 and have purchased the Christmas gifts for all my friends and loved ones.

Yes, we all know men shop differently than women. We’re hunters. We locate our game, we attack it full force and we drag the carcass to the register. There’s no need to meander or flip through racks of clothes or spend 10 minutes trying to figure out which white socks might look better.

But I’m a married man now, and that means life has changed. No longer is it justified to do an entire month’s worth of grocery shopping in 20 minutes. No longer do I sprint down the toilet-paper aisle reaching and throwing. No longer do I linger in the beer section, instead focusing my attention to vegetables.

My nightmare reminder reappeared recently, as I stood near bras and panties in another large department store. Older ladies gave me that same smirk I felt 30 years ago, and younger women passed by with glares toward a hormonal middle-aged man.
And as I looked up, he stood there smiling.

“Clarence” – the bane of my existence.