You Can Go Your Own Way

You Can Go Your Own Way

Early in our marriage, my husband would passively aggressively agree to go shopping with me. This means that while his mouth was saying, “Sure, I’d love to go to the mall with you,” his tone and pronounced facial tic were saying, “There has got to be a way out of this.”

After nearly 19 years of marriage, we’ve developed a method that seems to work well. He goes his way, and I go mine. But we still run into problems, like the other night at Wal-Mart.

“I tell you what,” he suggested. “You go get the eye drops and I’ll go to tools. Meet me there.” And with that, and the shopping cart, he was gone.

On the way to the eye drops, I directed a woman in obvious distress to the closest bathroom. I grabbed the eye drops then realized I had lost the shopping list. I found the slip of paper and made my way to the tool section. My husband was not there. I was not surprised.

“This happens every single time,” I said out loud. A man scanning the plumbing supplies retreated cautiously. I couldn’t call my wayward husband. He had my purse and my cell phone in that blasted cart.

“I knew this would happen. It always does. ” I had the entire tool department to myself. I debated whether to stay or to go. I peered from each end of the aisle, in both directions, leering. I headed to the grocery section in full pursuit where I ran into a friend.

“Hey, girl,” said Suzanne. “How’s it going?”

“Have you seen my husband?” I asked, trying to smile through gritted teeth. “He was supposed to be in tools. He’s not there. I’ve covered the entire store. “

“Uh oh,” said Suzanne, nodding knowingly. “Been there, done that. Good luck.”

Somewhere within the confines of that superstore was a man stewing in his own juices while I simmered in mine. He couldn’t find me. I couldn’t find him. And I had checked the beer section twice.

Finally, I glimpsed his bright yellow polo, his back to me, heading in the direction of the jewelry counter.

I half yelled, half growled his name across fifty feet of open floor. I learned on a previous encounter with store security that running through a major retail outlet draws immediate and unwanted attention. I watched him. He turned the corner toward tools. Finally, I’d be able to wring his neck.

I rounded the corner among the hammers and nails. He wasn’t there. I stood, stunned. I careened through aisles of hardware, the paint department and automotive. He was gone. Again. I imagined the announcement from customer service I so badly wanted to deliver:

“Mr. Twedt, what’s left of your wife has spontaneously combusted at the customer service desk,” I’d have them say. “Please pick up her smoldering remains IN THE TOOL SECTION.”

At a complete loss, I waited. I tried to calm myself among the hardware and watched as the heat from my infuriated body melted stainless steel. And then, just like that, there he was.

“Where have you been?” I railed, choking on smoke. The look on his face essentially screamed the same.

“I went to tools, just like I told you,” he said. “I waited at least 30 minutes! I decided you must have gone for the groceries. I walked every aisle twice!”

“Well, I went to tools as soon as I found the grocery list and you weren’t here,” I accused. “I swear! I am never shopping with you ever, ever again.”

Admittedly, he did a pretty good job of camouflaging a victorious smile. He left to pick up our daughter from the mall, and I slung food into the cart. I was nearly finished when they returned.

“Wow, that was fast,” said my daughter when she arrived ten minutes later. “Dad said you hadn’t even started shopping for groceries.”

“I guess I spent too much time looking for an appropriate weapon,” I muttered. But, apologies were exchanged. Laughter prevailed. We vowed to never separate in a store without our cell phones. But just in case, I have customer service on speed dial.