So It Goes: he on the chair

I was looking for the mother-of the-bride frock and he wasn't all that keen to be spending a few hours at the shopping centre.

My husband's idea of shopping is to arrive, park, walk around the centre, preferably without entering any actual shops, then leave as rapidly as possible, hopefully within the hour.

The only exception would be if he was looking at bottles of wine, classical CDs or anything to do with baseball.  Then, he can spend a pleasant amount of time deliberating and evaluating whether this would be a useful addition to his collection of useless things to do with these three favourite  topics.

Shopping for dresses, especially dresses I might be fussy about, plummets to the bottom of an activity which is already at the bottom of the list of things he likes to do.

Hence the seats.  Instead of walking past every shop, his compromise is to sit outside the shop, allowing me to wander in and look around (again, preferably at break neck speed) so that he can then head to the next seat in front of the next shop, and be one shop closer to the exit of the car park.

His problem is when I find something.  I go to the front of the store and try to attract his attention.  At this point, he is completely riveted in either looking at the phone or at passers by and usually ignores my pleas.  When he eventually sees me (usually I am doing a jig at this stage, waving the garment I wish him to view vigorously like a flag), he seems shocked that I might be asking him to enter the store.

He gives me a bit of a cross and slightly perplexed look. I jig and wave a bit more.  He gets up slowly, then shuffles over.  This little walk from chair to store front is an art form he has perfected over several shopping trips.  It involves him sighing a lot, rolling his eyes, hunching his back and then walking as slowly as possible to the store, while trying to gain sympathy from passing shoppers as to his hen-pecked-while-shopping status.

It doesn't work.

At this point I usually entice him towards the change room (again, with the same poor-me shuffle) so that he can view the item I have dragged him in for.  

At this point he may utter his first word, which is sometimes 'mutton', meaning I am trying to dress like a lamb, rather than the mutton that I am.  But occasionally he nods and tells me that the mirrors were wrong and I actually look okay.

I still haven't bought the dress.  It looks like I'll he'll be warming the seats again this weekend.

PS On that note, it seems prophetic that there aren't seats outside the men's wear stores.