I’m trying to tackle the psychological reasoning behind girls bringing their male significant others shopping. I feel like since the beginning of my time here on planet earth, I’ve been one of the few percent who hate shopping with boys. I truly despise the experience. If I walk into a store and I spot a boy tagging along with his girlfriend to the point that he should just wear a leash, I make a B line to the other end of the store to avoid him at all costs. Why, you ask? Because I can smell the fresh scent of an awkward death by hanger approaching. Or I’m just trying to convince the males of the universe that I naturally look this wonderful and I put zero effort into it at all. It’s probably a mix of both.
Remember that Good Charlotte band? Did they fall off the face of the earth or have I been out of the loop? Anyways, they wrote this song called “Boys & Girls” where they claim girls don’t like boys, girls like cars and money. Sure, if you’re a famous man with unlimited fortune. But for the average Joe, I’ve never seen this happen. You don’t see some Target sales manager in his thirties being dragged by his girlfriend to Gucci stores and drooling over his 1996 Hyundai. So I call bullshit on Good Charlotte and everything angsty that they represent.
From my observation, there are two types of girls who bring boys with them to go shopping. The first is the girl who has the unrealistic sense that her boyfriend is going to give her fashion advice. This is where those girls just keeping digging themselves into a hole. Her expectations are that her boyfriend is going to be like, “Oh Amanda, teal works perfectly with your skin tone.” Guys are smart because they know they cannot say anything negative about the floral blouse his girlfriend just picked out because that will result in a 24 hour fight where she calls him crying and yelling, “YOU THINK I’M FAT, DON’T YOU?”
Instead, it looks a little more like this:
The boyfriend looks up from his phone.
“What do you think of this?”
“Um, yeah. Looks great,” he says. And then before you know it, you’re purchasing an outfit that closely resembles the customers of Walmart that Buzzfeed keeps posting as if it’s news. All because you dragged your boyfriend who most likely does not want to be there and will do and say just about anything to keep his sanity.
The second type of girl is the one who expects her boyfriend to pay for these items. This also makes no sense to me because majority of the dudes I see following their girlfriends around the racks are teenagers. And they don’t have any money. I don’t care if he makes $10.50 an hour at the water park working part-time. He has no money to spare. So hold onto that $5 Claire’s ring tightly because that’s all you’re getting for a long time.
But what bothers me about it is the never ending topic of feminism. It’s what we all wanted, isn’t it? So by pulling your boyfriend into a store, finding a pair of jeans and looking at him with puppy dog eyes isn’t setting us back fifty years, then I don’t know what. If you’re a working woman, buy the damn jeans yourself. If you’re not a working woman, better go ask your mom!
I recently went shopping with Mr. Jess and it was as awkward as you could imagine. Mostly on my part. We went to the Outlets in Connecticut and each store we passed, he asked me if I wanted to go in. I felt like a toddler being asked by her parents if she wanted to sit on Santa’s lap but he seemed a lot bigger in person than she’d imagined so she instead backed away slowly nearly knocking down the Christmas tree. I kept nodding my head shyly, secretly hoping he’d be like, “Hey, I need a tie. Let’s go in here.”
We walked up to a Brooks Brothers and we both made eye contact that we should maybe sorta kinda go in. Only we walked in, stared at each other in silence before Mr. Jess finally said, “I don’t actually have an interest in this store.” And I said, “I don’t either.” We stroked a shirt and ran out. We were in the store for a total of fifteen seconds.
When we found J. Crew (which, by the way, I’d like to be buried in, in case any of you bloggers are responsible for the placement of my dead body), I was finally in my happy place. That is, until Mr. Jess said he wanted to buy me something. I followed it with an “ICK” noise, and then a, “Why?” He seemed confused by my reaction. When a guy asks to buy me something, I immediately feel like this is a Hugh Hefner moment, and I’m just one of his playmates he’s trying to amuse. After I apologized for my response as if he had just told me he had Ebola, I politely declined the offer. Most girls probably would have slapped me. I guess it’s just how I’m wired.
Perhaps I’m the weird one. Feel free to express that to me.