PlateIt seems to me as of late that there has been an abnormally concentrated “I hate relationships” feeling floating around amongst many of my friends and companions.

Last night I had the blessed opportunity to accompany two very special young ladies on a therapeutic escapade to the nearby Walmart. Both girls have been going through what I would like to call a “rough spot” with the boys. They both needed to get out, do some shopping and clear their heads. For some unspoken reason, I was invited. Maybe it’s cause I’m the ‘nice guy,’ or maybe they just needed some target practice… whatever the reason, I went.

I could tell the girls were exceptionally emotional, and that the evening was going to be a complete blog-worth adventure solely by the driving. As we rolled up the street bordering the Walmart, the girl in front of the wheel turned on her left blinker. She said, “This is how I get to Walmart, right?”

“Um…” my friend in shotgun stammered nervously.

“No,” I replied. “The Walmart is actually the large, football-stadium-sized building directly to your right.” This comment was directly followed with a fair amount of nervous laughter.

We parked the car, narrowly avoiding taking the life of a plethora of pedestrians, and hustled inside.

As we wondered through the labyrinth of stained floors, generic food brands and funny smelling people, our cart began to fill. After a good 45 minutes (a reasonable amount of time to spend at the Wally World for three people), the cart neared its capacity, and we were on the verge of wrapping up our shopping experience. We came to a consensus that we would leave after we picked up our last needed item… the plate.

We spent a good 20 minutes just searching for the plate aisle (which is on the other side of the store from the food… WTF?). As I passed a tower of greeting cards, I caught a glimpse of a plate and rounded a corner… when what to my wondering eyes should appear? A nearly infinite selection of plates, bowls and utensils. The girls squealed with glee as a little part of me died inside.

“OH! Look how cute this one is!”

“Oh, I don’t like black… or white… and that one is too expensive, but I WANT IT!”

As my manhood began to work its way into my stomach and my consciousness began to fade, the sensitive man inside of me just flat out keeled over (at this point, I lost responsibility for any and all of my actions… I don’t think the girls knew this). I’m quite sure that somewhere along the line something came out of my mouth or was read in my body language that I wasn’t in the mood to spend a solid hour fawning over how ‘cute’ the plates were, while making suggestions as to which one would look best with the motif of the apartment. As the boredom overtook me, the girls quickly became irritated with my attitude. (To be honest, I don’t even know why I was invited there in the first place. I figured the last person on the earth they’d want to see would be one in possession of a Y chromosome, given the circumstances.)

Anyway, after roughly an hour of what seemed like death, the decision was made. Walmart did NOT have the right plates.

“We should check Target!”

“We should take the man home first.”

“Yeah, he’s no fun.”

Ladies, I may be a good listener, and I’m happy to help you work things out when they get complicated. It’s satisfying for me to be a good friend. But by golly, shopping for plates must just bring out the stereotypical, jerk-faced douche bag of a man in me. I guess I can’t put plate shopping on my ‘Husband Material Resume.’