I try to avoid embarrassment as often as possible. I doubt that any of us thrive on feeling our faces turn various spectrums of red, our heads slinking toward our shoulders in the classic turtle maneuver. Occasionally our hands spontaneously cover our faces. When we face embarrassment, well, we don’t face it.
I’ve had several encounters with this mortifying experience.
Jan likes to take me shopping. She asks my opinion on how she looks in a multitude of blouses, pants and shoes. Not wanting to get trapped in a female scheme I tell her that it doesn’t matter, anything looks great on her.
Jan likes to wander when shopping. Often I’ll turn my back and she vanishes. Adding to the disappearing problem is that Jan’s stature is about the same height as the clothes racks. I’ve come to recognize the extreme top of her head.
As Jan plucks clothing like ripe peaches from a tree I know the inevitable is coming. This is planned humiliation. Naturally, any piece of clothing she gathers needs to be tried on. It doesn’t matter if everything is the exact size she’s already wearing, each item needs to be experimented for proper fit, length, color or pattern.
Of course, the only place to scrutinize the experimental frocks is in the dressing room.
“I’ll be just a minute” she tells me while pointing to a metal folding chair and non-verbally telling me to sit.
That minute turns into ten, fifteen then twenty. I shift constantly on the chair, sitting straight, bending over, crossing my legs, and stretching. The longer I sit, the more stares I receive from the sales clerk who apparently just started her shift.
I stand, shouting plea fully into the dressing room, “Hey honey, are you still in there?
Three yeses from different voices answer.
I start to pace, constantly scanning for a way out. In my impatience I didn’t notice how far I’d wandered from the women’s clothing laboratory. My eyes darted to the right, then to the left. I started to sweat. There I was, right in the middle of lingerie.
I closed my eyes tight, wishing I could teleport to somewhere safe, like the men’s restroom.
I stood motionless like a captive in a game of freeze tag.
Someone grabbed my arm and a husky voice whispered, “Sir, you’re coming with me.”
As I was escorted from the department I stammered, “MyMMMy wife’s in the dressing room. I’m jus-jus just waiting.”
“Jan, help me!” I screamed.
“Hey, he’s with me” Jan shouted from the dressing room door.
The security guard let go of my arm and I ran back to my heroine, hugging her tightly.
Jan’s eyes squinted and began to twitch. “I asked you to sit on that chair. I was only a few minutes.”
“But I…”
“Never mind, let’s go.”
“What clothes are you buying?”
“I didn’t like any of them, let’s go to a different store.”
As Jan grabbed my hand I looked for anyone with a gram of compassion, “Help me!” I pleaded with the women still in the department, “Help me!”
One woman we passed shook her head and muttered, “Husbands.”
