SUBURBAN MAN
“My First Time”
This is kind of embarrassing to admit. Until last week I had never returned anything to any store. Not once. Never.
I accumulated this unblemished 42-year-record with various different techniques over the years. First and foremost, I kept each and every thing given to me as a gift. Even if it didn’t fit. Even if I didn’t like it at all. Even if it was obviously re-gifted. I always defended this as simply being polite. If someone went to the trouble of giving me a gift, the least I could do was display it, or wear it, or put it deep into a closet for the rest of my life.
This technique was working nicely for me until I got married about fifteen years ago. Suddenly, some gifts weren’t just for me anymore. They were for both of us. I tried to use the same technique with my wife, but she wouldn’t go for it.
“What is wrong with you?” she asked.
“I guess," I explained, "the gift-receiving politeness-gene is only carried in the Y chromosome."
“That’s crazy,” she would say, “Take it back. We don’t need five cow-shaped creamers.”
I pretended to give in, but I merely kept “forgetting” to return it. Eventually she would just get frustrated and take it back herself. She even came around to accepting this odd personality tick of mine, and stopped asking me to return things.
This new post-marriage technique continued to work after we had children. For ten glorious years whenever our children received gifts that weren’t appropriate or didn’t fit, Bridget returned them. Then, without even realizing the implications, I volunteered to stay at home and raise the kids while Bridget returned to work every day. It wasn’t easy, but I was adjusting pretty well to everything until disaster struck this year.
One of our kids got “fat pants.” I’m sure that’s not the technical name, but when your son is so skinny he makes Mary Kate Olson look like John Goodman, just about every pair of pants look like fat pants on him. And my other kids, while not quite as skinny, also have very little chance of fitting into these pants as long they continue eating an all-white-food non-caloric diet.
One night after work, Bridget walked into the room holding the gigantic pants in her hand. She looked at me, and my heart started pounding. I realized what she was going to say. This was my job now.
“You have to return these,” she said.
“He may grow into them,” I said. “Maybe we can get that surgery where they staple an extra stomach on.”
No dice. I had to confront the ugly truth. I was afraid to return anything because I had no idea what to do or where to go. I was planning on hiding the pants and pretending like I returned them, but she was on to me. This time no matter what I said or did, I wasn’t getting out of it.
“At Target they only give you a store credit,” she said.
“You think I don’t know that?” I replied testily.
“Don’t spend it,” she said. “Just bring me back the receipt.”
She had me. I started sweating. I didn’t sleep that night. By the time I arrived at Target the next day, I was in the midst of a full-fledged anxiety attack. I settled down a little when I found the return desk without much problem. It couldn’t be missed; the line was about six miles long.
I was pretty sure I was ready to go, but I double checked everything.
*Fat Pants—Check.
*Gift Receipt—Check.
*Picture of my sons to prove that these pants couldn’t possibly fit—Check.
*List of the foods my sons will eat without being threatened—Check.
*Pictures of my friend’s and sibling’s kids to prove the pants couldn’t possibly be given to someone else we know—Check.
I rehearsed the true story in my mind a dozen times. I figured the store detective conducted these interrogations and I wanted to be ready for him or her. Doubt suddenly crept in; what if they thought my kids were too dangerously skinny? What if they called the authorities? What would I say? The guy in front of me was called to the counter. It was almost my turn. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. Before I could even rehearse again, another “service representative” was free.
“Next please,” she called.
"Please be gentle with me," I joked. "It's my first time."
She didn't even look up. Uh oh. Humorless alert. I was a dead man.
Thirty seconds later, she handed me a plastic card.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“That’s your store credit.”
”Just like that?”
“Yes, sir,” she said and looked over my shoulder. “Next please.”
“Wait a second,” I said, holding up my hand to stop the person behind me. “That's it? No questions?"
"Like what?" she asked. "You have the product, you have the receipt."
"What if I didn't have a receipt?" I asked.
“If it’s in re-sellable condition,” she answered, “and we still carry the item, we’ll take it back.”
This was mind blowing.
“So it doesn't matter when I got it as long you still have it in stock and it's in good condition?" I asked.
She was openly sighing now. “Yes,” she said.
"One last question," I said. "Could you point me to the cow-shaped creamer section?”
Suburban Man Question: Last week one of the readers of Suburban Man had a great premise. "W" said "You know you've become Suburban Man when..."
Fill in the blank and send me your responses. I'll post them all later today.
