A Paradox of AveragenessbySlirpuff©
I hate the mall.
I don't think there is a married man alive that doesn't get a sick feeling in his stomach when his wife says those infamous words to him, "Honey, I need to go to mall this weekend."
I, doesn't mean her by herself—no—it means WE are going to the damn mall, and there is not a force on this earth that will prevent it from happening.
I've done it so many times over the years I don't even quibble about it anymore. Are there other things I'd rather be doing? Most certainly, especially on a weekend, but I know better than to argue or say no. I did that only once and paid for it for almost three months.
First came the look, then the attitude, and finally the credit card bills. Years later I would kid my wife telling her to leave her credit cards on the counter and back away with her hands in the air. It didn't work back then, and it sure as hell doesn't work now. So you suck it up, smile, put on a pair of comfortable walking shoes, and take one for the team.
You know you're in deep shit when you get off at the mall exit and see traffic backed up for blocks just to get into the parking lot. I used to cut in and out of traffic thinking the sooner I got there the sooner we get to leave. Ha, that's a fallacy. The mall is open until nine at night and any woman worth her muster is going to do whatever is necessary to find that item she came to buy no matter how long it takes.
Another fact is that no woman wants to go to the mall alone. I think it has something to do with pack mentality. Since I've got two daughters there is no way my wife will go alone when she can have company. Unfortunately there are those times when our daughters are busy with other stuff and can't go with her, then she is more than willing take me along as her second choice. Other times, like today, I think I am there just to help carry the bags, sort of like the team packhorse. It's only those women still in the honeymoon stage of their relationship that will want her man as her first choice—something about breaking down his future resistance. And, if he ever wants sex again, he'll smile and follow her like a little puppy until she's ready to leave.
If a guy is smart he'll drop everyone off at the mall door, telling them he'll park the car and see them inside. That's worth at least a half hour, maybe even up to forty-five minutes especially if it's during the holiday season. She can still keep track of you by cell phone, but I've been known to tell her I turned it off for a while to save on my low battery. The problem is that excuse will work maybe once every couple of months and never during the holidays.
Truth be known, women really don't want with us with them, but we do serve some purpose. While they try on clothes we sit in a stupid chair the store puts outside the dressing room specifically for men to hold their wife's purse. You, along with all the other men, congregate around the outside of the dressing room waiting for our wives to come out and ask what we think. And let me tell you be very careful what you say, that's dangerous ground in and of itself.
I realized early on my and my wife's tastes in clothing are one hundred and eighty degrees apart. So, when she comes out and asks what I think it means how does it fit, not how it looks on her.
"Looks good, hon!" is my usual reply. To me everything looks good on her.
"Does it look too tight? You know I like a lot of room in my clothes."
You see, that's where we differ. Me, I like to see her body when I look at her, where she doesn't like to show her curves. I like her clothes just tight enough that I can see the outline of her ass and breasts. She usually wins unless one of our daughters can convince her otherwise.
A smart man tells the truth unless the woman says, "I could probably use a size larger, but they don't have it in stock." About then you say it fits her to a T because you know she really wants it, and hell, after she brings it home, washes it, and it shrinks, she's just going to return it anyway. It seems women return at least sixty percent of what they purchase, even if it's been previously worn.
After two hours and three stores later I make my move.
"I'm going to look for a pair of sandals. I'll have my cell on so just let me know which store you're in." My wife nods, my daughters ignore me but I'm finally free. I'd say, "Free at last, free at last, thank God, free at last" which might sound a little racist, but it fits. I aimlessly walk the mall looking at everything, looking for nothing. I spy the food court and make a beeline for it. I pick up a medium coffee at Starbucks and buy one of those Cinnabuns I'm not supposed to be eating because they're pure sugar. That's what my wife tells me, and she wouldn't lie, would she?
Looking down, I could probably stand to lose more than a couple of pounds, but since I don't plan on trying out for the Packers anytime soon I'll live with my little belly. Hell, I ride a Harley, and isn't that one of the requirements for owning one? But damn, those buns are too good to pass up.
Sitting at one of the tables I relax, sip my coffee, and try to eat that messy roll without it getting all over my mustache and beard—a hopeless endeavor. The napkin helps. Still I'm going to have to hit the restroom afterwards to get rid of the evidence on my facial hair. No way I'm going to give her a kiss and have her find cinnamon glaze on my mustache or breath.
With the evidence now in the pit of my stomach, I start to people watch. At forty-one I'm young enough to look, just not stupid enough to touch. I probably have at least an hour to aimlessly watch the crowd passing by me looking particularly at the females, which outnumber the men almost four to one.
After about twenty minutes I play a game with myself—which ones would I take the chance of sleeping with? They better be one fine piece of female flesh for me to risk my wife's wrath if she ever found out. So I watch and rate them.
A six, almost a seven, that one is probably an eight and would have scored higher if she'd do something about her red hair, just wasn't feeling the red. Average is what almost every one of them rate. There are all sizes and flavors out there walking in front of me for my inspection, they just don't know it. After a while I get out a small piece of paper and my pen and start keeping track. I list five columns, six through ten, and start categorizing them.
The majority of them are in the seven to seven and a half range. I am only grading those that are at least in their late twenties to around fifty. There were some hot younger ones, but I would feel like a pedophile looking at them in that way. I spend the next forty-five minutes keeping score.
Don't get me wrong, I see my share of eights and nines, but most of them are in uniform. You know, those women at the makeup and perfume counters, the ones that want to spray you when you walk by. I see two tens, and maybe a ten and a half, so does every other guy there as most follow them with their eyes even if they are with their wives or partners. And those women know they are hot shit, too.
I eye fuck one, watching her slowly meander right in front of me. Hell, I mentally undress her, take her to bed, and thank God for not striking me dead for what I want to do to her.
She sees me, and flashes a smile that lets me know what I was thinking is never going to happen. The guy she is with is dressed to the nines and looks oblivious to everything happening around him. He is probably rich and she's most likely his trophy wife or arm candy. Whatever, I think I gained at least three pounds eyeing her up.
From what I see most women are nothing more than average and after looking at the guys they are with, none of them are anything to write home about either. Everyone looks like they could stand to lose a good ten pounds and the way some people are dressed, you'd think they don't have any mirrors in their houses or they dressed in the dark. And that is giving them the benefit of the doubt.
If you were to ask a hundred people, I think you'd find that most guys would be satisfied with being average but certainly not the women. I watch them as they pass store windows looking at their reflection and making minor adjustments. When I sit outside dressing rooms, I watch one after another walk into the dressing room with an armful of clothes to try on. Big, small, young, old, they're all there hoping to enhance their looks, thinking the next dress, skirt, or blouse will make them look just a little bit better, satisfying their vanity and self image a bit when they look in the mirror. The majority will still look average no matter what they put on.
Then I think about myself. I could stand to lose a few pounds, my hair is starting to thin, and with a casual tee shirt, a pair of old jeans, and tennis shoes that have seen their better days I am no catch either. Am I average like every other person out there? Most probably. And what the hell is wrong with being average, anyway? I'm not like some damn peacock showing my plumage looking for a mate, I got mine years ago. Was I average back then?
The ringing of my phone brings me back to reality.
"Where are you at?" my wife asks as I look at my watch seeing that I'd spent the better part of the last hour and a half people watching.
""Dead center of the mall by the food court. Where are you?"
"We're making our way towards you, watch for us," I am instructed. So, like a good husband I move to the right side of the mall walkway and wait for my family, watching the people pass by me.
I see my wife and two teenage daughters before they see me. They're laden down with shopping bags, and by the smile on their faces they look like lionesses that had just taken down a wildebeest. We'll all be eating well tonight.
I wave and they spot me. Hell, they would have run right into me wave or no wave; nevertheless I wave anyway. Without saying a word I grab the bags—that's why I'm here—and ask if they have found everything they came for.
"I still need a brown pair of shoes and matching bag," my wife informs me. "You find any sandals?"
"None that interested me. If you want shoes and a purse we'd better get a move on," is my quick response. I start moving down the aisle to the next group of shops.
My wife never finds those brown shoes and bag even though we look through another six to seven stores. I say nothing when she finds another pair of black slacks on sale and my choice of a sexy top to go with it.
"You don't think this is a little too daring? I'll probably have to pin the top because it shows way too much cleavage."
"Now, if you went braless you'd look so hot in that top," I am imagining it already.
"In your dreams. No one but you wants to see my sagging boobs." I grab her in an inappropriate manner, like I always do. She yelps. I don't care because nobody is looking, though I wouldn't care if anyone saw us. More than once I had tried to get her to fool around in a dressing room, it happens all the time in the erotic stories I read, however in real life it wasn't going to happen—to me—anyway. So, she slaps my hands away and tells me to be good. I could be great if only she'd let me. In less than five minutes we are out of that store with a few more bags in my hands.
By five thirty we're done, finished, and tired. Well, I'm finished and tired. We all walk out to the car and I stow all their hard fought items in the trunk of the car. I hear about every conquest, sale item, and the things they will be waiting for to go on sale at the stores' end of season sales. They are in their own world.
Do I bother to tell them what I did all afternoon, or even take the time to show them the scientific study I did while they were saving me a ton of money? Not on your life, I don't have a death wish. When we get home everyone goes to their own rooms with their bags of goodies.
I lay down on the bed and ask my wife to model each new item of clothing for me, especially that hot blouse I'd picked out and made her buy. That thought brings me back to Christmas two years ago. I purchased what I thought were three of the hottest and sluttiest articles of clothing I could find. The material for each outfit could fit in two closed hands without seeing any fabric. She wore one outfit and pronounced it looked stupid on her.
"I'm not a twenty year old, and I sure as hell don't have a body like one anymore." I thought she looked sexy and talked her into trying on one more of the other ones for me. She ended up giving them all to Goodwill. That certainly was not what I had in mind for them.
Then it hit me. I pull out the list I'd comprised and review my results for the second or third time. I have a break through. That's not totally true because I have known it all along.
My wife is a ten, at least in my eyes. She is the woman I fell in love with, had two wonderful daughters with, and who is the one I want to wake up next to every morning. I not only fell in love with her, but also in lust. She may not have a twenty-four inch waist or a thirty-six C bust line, she has what I fell in love with all those years ago.
I can truthfully say she is my soul mate. I wouldn't trade her in for any of the women I saw today. In my book she is a keeper for now and forever.
She smiles at me and when I tell her I think she's sexy she tells me I'm blind. Well, if am I hope to always remain so because in my eyes she's everything I could ask for.
The only time I feel a bit hesitant is when all our friends' wives get together and talk about this or that hunk or that good looking movie star. What's so damn special about Brad Pitt? I know what I look like and I'm almost positive that I'll never have six pack abs. Never had them even when I was in my twenties. She keeps talking about putting me on a diet and with her help I'll likely lose a couple of pounds just for her, how could I not.
So, tonight I take a quick shower and walk back into the bedroom, and lo and behold she's wearing the sluttest red outfit I've ever seen.
"Anyone up for a little loving tonight?" She didn't have to ask twice.
All right, I don't last for an hour or pound her into submission as she screams out my name. We only do it once instead of four to five times like in those damn erotic stories, but I make sure she climaxes first and at least once. Lying there with her in my arms is almost heaven. Ten minutes later I've washed my face, taken a slug of mouthwash, and made my way back to bed. My wife is looking at a piece of paper she found in my jean pocket.
"What's this?" she asks, looking at that semi-crumbled paper.
"It's the hundred and twenty two people that agree with me that you are the hottest married woman around." My wife shacks her head in disbelief. "We're definitely going to have to have your eyes fixed."
"That, my friends, is never going to happen, not in my lifetime, anyway."