I’ll take a side of Novocaine with that handbag, please

And about that “good time.”  I’m a little nervous about taking him on my upcoming expedition.  You know, the one where I enact the “Woman on a Mission to Find the Perfect Purse Because the Black One I Currently Have is Totally Unsuitable?”  That’s the one.  We’d had a close call just a couple of weeks ago when I glanced up from my spot at the counter.  There it was, hanging in splendor on a hook up high.  It fairly glowed, that handbag did.  Its vibrant hue spoke to life (it did!), to love, and to sheer happiness.  Of things abloom, hope springing new, the end of winter’s dominance – it gave witness to all of these from its place on the wall. Unable to resist, I’d stepped away from my place in line.  Some things simply must be touched and held in one’s hands, and a beautiful purse was certainly one of “those things.” Later, having left that lovely handbag behind, I did what I often do and shared it with my friends.  “So last weekend, I’m out shopping with Mr. Schrock. There before me is a darling purse in a soft, buttery leather the color of spring (coral/orange),” the update said.  “Too bad it wasn’t the right size (too small) or the right price (ninety bucks). Good thing that drooling’s free!” Predictably, they laughed.  “I’ll bet Mr. Schrock was heaving a sigh of relief,” noted a friend in Pennsylvania. “A sigh?” I thought.  Why, between all that relieved sighing and the murmuring about the color (“it can’t decide if it’s orange or pink”), he’d nearly ended up with his head between his knees, looking for his equilibrium.  I’d nearly ended up joining him there on the sidewalk, head down, looking for my own. You can see why I’m not too sure about taking him along when I get serious about this.  Not when that was just a little warm up, the intro, the practice run.  If we’re hyperventilating already, it doesn’t bode well for the real deal.  Come to think of it, that’s probably how he feels when he takes me to Best Buy.  Where they have electronics.  And appliances.  And – well, electronics.  He can browse there for hours, comparing pixels and screen sizes.  I can’t browse there for hours, but I’m comparing, too.  As in how far we’ve moved in the last hour and the distance from here to the front door.  You’ll understand, then, why he’s begging for Novocaine and threatening to admit himself by the time he’s finally done. As for the boys, they’d bend over like that and take the shot if it meant they’d never have to try clothes on again.  That walk to the dressing room is a forced march through a steaming jungle.  Barefoot.  Over hot rocks, in chains, and with a prison warden and her rubber truncheon bringing up the rear. It’s the electronics again.  They could be over in the game section, trying out the new stuff.  Instead, they’re in the dressing room, trying on pants.  Life’s unfair and mom’s mean, so hit ‘em, please (and quick), with that syringe.  As I always tell them when they’ve survived something unpleasant, “Well, look at that.  You actually lived to tell about it.”  I’ll have to tell Mr. Schrock this the next time he takes me to Best Buy.  If, of course, I live to tell about it.  And vice versa if I take him to look at purses with me.