A large part of this weekend was spent shopping in boutiques. Small places, no bigger than a bathroom - all filled with quaint items and baubles, designer pieces, and home décor from far away places. Summer fashions, crystal dinnerware, and Celtic music that just wouldn’t… ever… stop.
I saw a $500 spoon.
The trip wasn’t for me, but for the artist in my life. In the midst of a creative block, diversions like this sometimes help her to get the flow going. Plus, she loves these places like a kid in a candy store, and I like to try to do what I can to make her smile.
Boutiques like this rarely have a lot of room to spare, but when they do, you’ll often find little accommodations put there for men. A couch. An easy chair. A 14 year-old issue of Sports Illustrated. All thoughtful touches to offer solace to the husband or boyfriend who simply cannot find the connection between three pieces of tin fashioned to kinda look like a sheep holding a golf club and the word “Awwwwww!”
The chairs and couches are nice. But I’m here to say that they’re not enough.
They need to let us break something.
Instead of the “shame chair” next to the dressing room, or the “hold my purse while I try this on” corral next to the cash register -- there needs to be a designated spot where men of all ages can freely take a glass vase and throw it against the wall as hard as they can.
Think of it -- A small area in the bath and body store where you could stomp on as many scented candles as you want. A zone where all terra cotta fears to tread. An Ambercrombie and Fitch sanctuary where you could take all the white people underwear you could grab and drape it on the fake moosehead’s antlers. A place in the home store where you could set fire to anything made from unfinished wood without fear of reprisal.
This isn’t about hate, or disapproval. It’s about that sense of dread you feel as a guy going into these places. That deep seated “you break it - you buy it” terror built into us by our mothers, forcing us to stand there with our hands in our pockets, denying our youthful energies by forcing us to accompany them into the “breakable stuff” store.
Here I am, twenty some years later, trying to do something good for someone I care about, not even realizing that my hands are again, like some pavlovian dog, back in my pockets.
Just once, just one time I wish I could have like $700 cash in my pocket when I go into a place like this. Just once, I’d call over the salesgirl with the glasses around her neck on a chain and say “Excuse me, how much is this handmade crystal sculpture worth?”
“That’s priced at $650, sir.”
And then, with a slightly evil grin on my face, I would turn to her and say,
“No kidding...”
I saw a $500 spoon.
The trip wasn’t for me, but for the artist in my life. In the midst of a creative block, diversions like this sometimes help her to get the flow going. Plus, she loves these places like a kid in a candy store, and I like to try to do what I can to make her smile.
Boutiques like this rarely have a lot of room to spare, but when they do, you’ll often find little accommodations put there for men. A couch. An easy chair. A 14 year-old issue of Sports Illustrated. All thoughtful touches to offer solace to the husband or boyfriend who simply cannot find the connection between three pieces of tin fashioned to kinda look like a sheep holding a golf club and the word “Awwwwww!”
The chairs and couches are nice. But I’m here to say that they’re not enough.
They need to let us break something.
Instead of the “shame chair” next to the dressing room, or the “hold my purse while I try this on” corral next to the cash register -- there needs to be a designated spot where men of all ages can freely take a glass vase and throw it against the wall as hard as they can.
Think of it -- A small area in the bath and body store where you could stomp on as many scented candles as you want. A zone where all terra cotta fears to tread. An Ambercrombie and Fitch sanctuary where you could take all the white people underwear you could grab and drape it on the fake moosehead’s antlers. A place in the home store where you could set fire to anything made from unfinished wood without fear of reprisal.
This isn’t about hate, or disapproval. It’s about that sense of dread you feel as a guy going into these places. That deep seated “you break it - you buy it” terror built into us by our mothers, forcing us to stand there with our hands in our pockets, denying our youthful energies by forcing us to accompany them into the “breakable stuff” store.
Here I am, twenty some years later, trying to do something good for someone I care about, not even realizing that my hands are again, like some pavlovian dog, back in my pockets.
Just once, just one time I wish I could have like $700 cash in my pocket when I go into a place like this. Just once, I’d call over the salesgirl with the glasses around her neck on a chain and say “Excuse me, how much is this handmade crystal sculpture worth?”
“That’s priced at $650, sir.”
And then, with a slightly evil grin on my face, I would turn to her and say,
“No kidding...”