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Trusty old duct tape sticks to his identity
(by Christine Thome - February 23, 2011)
BEYOND MY CONTROL, BY CHRISTINE THOME
Trusty old duct tape sticks to his identity
Last Saturday, I returned from the grocery to store to find my husband rummaging through the coat closet.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm looking for the black duct tape. Have you seen it lately?"
"No, but if I was black duct tape, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be hiding in the closet," I said, regretting that I had asked in the first place.
"I think it's here. I used it to duct tape my old tennis shoes together so I could do some yard work, and I'm pretty sure I left it here."
"Why do you need it now?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"My briefcase broke. I'm gonna tape it back together," he said, holding up his ratty, 12-year-old office briefcase. The leather was worn at the bottom, and the strap had completely severed from the top.
What is it with men? They never put away anything; hence the black duct tape being at the bottom of a coat closet, instead of in his toolbox, where it belongs, and they never replace any necessities. They will spend $10 on a cigar, $30 on a six-pack of imported beer and ungodly amounts of money to play golf, but they would rather spend $5 for a roll of duct tape than to replace a pair of shoes or a briefcase once every 10 years.
"You are not duct taping that stupid thing back together. We are going to buy you a new briefcase today," I said.
"I don't need another one; this one's fine," he cried.
"Don't argue with me," I said. "Grab your shoes. Preferably the ones without duct tape holding them together."
As we headed downstairs, the kids asked us where we were going.
"To the mall. Dad needs a new briefcase."
"Oooo! Dad's getting a new purse," our son teased.
"It's not a purse. It's a briefcase!" John insisted.
"Briefcases are so yesterday, Dad. Now they call them man purses," our daughter said.
Panicking at the thought that his man card may be revoked, John suddenly refused to walk any further. "That's it. Where's the duct tape? I am not buying a man purse!"
"They still have briefcases, honey," I said, shooting my daughter a dirty look. "Come on. Let's just look."
"Be careful, Dad! Mom's gonna talk you into one of those man purses and turn you into a metrosexual," our son laughed.
"I am not a metrosexual! I'm married, have four kids and a subscription to Playboy!"
"Oh, for God's sake,!" I cried. "A metrosexual is a heterosexual man who isn't afraid to be stylish. Trust me, it wouldn't hurt you a bit to ditch the white, button-down shirts and khakis you wore in high school for something a little more hip."
Wanting to escape this conversation before it got any more personal, I grabbed John and told the kids we would be back in a few hours.
At the mall, we found a leather store that was divided like a junior high dance -- boys on the right and girls on the left.
"See! Those are purses over there!" I exclaimed, pointing out the lovely spring-colored bags on the left that were calling to me. "And those are briefcases," I grunted, pointing to the right at the rows of boring black and brown bags. A metrosexual wouldn't have even stepped foot into the store, but it was perfect for my husband.
Within a few minutes, a teenage girl named Ashley sauntered over and asked if she could help.
"I need a briefcase," John said.
"Briefcase?" she looked at him like he had three heads. "Um, do you, like mean a messenger bag or, um, like a satchel or something?"
"No, he needs something to carry his computer and other necessities to and from the office," I explained slowly.
"Oh! Like a purse!"
John suddenly went into full-panic mode, so I told Ashley we would look on our own. Within minutes, we found a boring, black briefcase identical to the one at home.
As Ashley was ringing us out, she peeked over at John's shoes and crinkled her nose.
"My boyfriend works at the shoe store upstairs. I'm just saying."
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