I've become my wife. Yes, it's true. No longer am I the guy I was before I
got married. No booze. No porn. No being bad. I'm now a goodie two-shoes
just like her. Even, perhaps, too much so.
My self-realization hit me recently while I was taking a relaxing weeklong
vacation just as my children began summer camp and I was in charge of
dropping off and picking up. During the day, in between, I was able to
chill at home, read and well shop. That's right (that four-letter word), I
did it. I, who rarely enters the gateways of commerce or goes to the mall
(that other four-letter word), but on those rare occasions when I am
dragged, complain after one lap around mall of my bad back, proceeded of my
own volition. At least I think it was me.
My wife on the other hand is a shopping pro. She has mall GPS. No need for
security. Were there an emergency, they'd call her first to know the layout
from elevators to air ducts.
Chaucer called idle hands the devil's playthings. My time off led me astray
and what can I say, but "guilty as charged on my Amex."
For me, it all began by my just checking e-mail. Then, like the Serpent,
those slick, slithery ads wove their way into my space. Hmm I said, I'll
just take a look. The rest was like so many bad junior high school
filmstrips warning us not even try a puff off a cigarette cause it will lead
How fast it all happened. It was like on out-of-body experience. It lures
you in with that prophetic word, the word, our people have revered for
centuries, the one profits are made from, "sale." The devil was not only
wearing Prada but also donned Magli and Gucci. Then there they were. I
stared unable to take my eyes off them. They practically spoke to me,
"Hello lover" they beckoned like some Lilith. I shut the window down fast.
A wave of Jewish guilt hit me hard. Yes, they were on sale, but still far
above my usual buy.
Home alone, with just a laptop against my palms, I felt as if I was cheating
on my wife. I turned to be sure no one was looking. Alas, the coast was
clear. What was I doing?
I went back again and stared, even longer this time.
They looked so soft, bathed in supple lighting, they practically purred.
They're so tan and inviting they almost rub up along your leg. They seemed
so smooth, no wonder they call them slip-ons. Mmm...made just for me as
they'd be sure to hug my dogs gently.
What could I do, but tenderly, helplessly and caressingly place them into my
shopping cart. It was as if someone else, some spirit, was controlling my
hands. There they lay for a day. I went back and kept looking at my caged
prey during the night.
What had become of me?
Her shopping chi had entered me. Like Adam, I had taken a bite out of our
credit card on my Apple. Realizing my actions were etched in its memory I
became scared. Do I confess? Or wait and hide? But this was my wife
we're talking about. She should be proud. She's the master and I the
Like Andrea, in The Devil Wears Prada, this mere neophyte would show his
Miranda what a great job he did and make her pleased, yes?
As her car pulled up, I told her everything and got it all off my chest. I
was saved. It's what she would have done. No secrets. Whatever it was that
was inside me, was neutralized when it was met with the truth and her
piercing stare. Like the Baal Shem-Tov rids the demon in the famous story,
The Dybbuk, I was relieved.
Where the ghoul went is a mystery. But it's out there; still inhabiting
the likes of other unsuspecting husbands who are unaware of what evil lurks
on the clearance racks.
Just be warned brothers. The dybbuk wears knock-offs
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