THERE he was, off in the distance. My guy.
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He looked like he was in his 40s.
He had the kind of face that ends up in advertisements for quintessentially Australian products. A bit wrinkly. The eyes a bit angled and scrunched, as if he’d spent years looking off to the horizon. The hair a light brown but with a hint of the blond it used to be, years ago, when he grew up on a big block somewhere in the suburbs - a kid who swung a cricket bat and kicked a ball well enough, but not at a level where anything serious was ever likely to eventuate.
Everyman.
In the shopping centre on Sunday he was wearing – of course – boardies, a t-shirt and thongs. He was standing by himself outside a line of shops selling lingerie, cosmetics, shoes and women’s fashion.
He looked lost, confused and bored in equal measure.
He was, I was sure, a man who rarely ventured into a shopping centre, was only in this shopping centre on this day because he had a job to do, and he was tossing up whether to go forth and get the business over and done with as quickly as humanly possible, or stand for a minute and work out a strategy to reduce the likelihood that his desire for speed and lack of a plan would produce costly mistakes.
He was, I was sure, a man who rarely ventured into a shopping centre, and was only in this shopping centre on this day because he had a job to do.
My guy. My target. A man doing the Christmas shopping.
His name, and I really should have predicted it, was Gary. “That’s Gary with one ‘r’,” he said when I approached him, identified myself as a journalist doing an article about men doing the Christmas shopping, and asked how he was going
Gary: “How do you know I’m doing the Christmas shopping? I could be here buying groceries.”
Me: “You’ve been looking at a bra shop for about five minutes. Either you’re some kind of creepy guy or you’re confused about whether to get your wife a bra or a pair of slippers in the shop next door.”
Gary: “You’ve done this before.”
Me: “Yep, every year. It’s a community service. I talk to men doing the Christmas shopping because it’s funny. You don’t come in here often, do you?”
Gary: “Nah. I think the last time I was in here was a few months ago when I had to get the wife a birthday present. It was better then. I think I’ve left my run a bit late this year. Too many people.”
Gary’s budget wasn’t unlimited, but he wanted to get his wife something nice. The bra shop looked like it might be a good place to start but it was a bit… Gary struggled to find the word or words to complete the sentence.
Me: “Lacy?”
Gary: “What?”
Me: “Too much lace? Too many little skimpy things.”
Gary: “Yeah. I’m a builder. Look at my hands. I’ll break something.”
I looked at his hands. Great for knocking up houses. Not so great for pulling a size 12 Victoria’s Secret Strappy Lace Cheekini Panty off the rack for a quick appraisal.
I assured Gary he’d be fine. There were nice young women inside who were trained to help men select the perfect Elle Macpherson Knicker Program Micro Bikinis, and they were happy to help him max out his credit card.
I moved on.
A male friend and I were talking on Saturday about our Christmas plans. I asked him what he planned to get his wife, a good friend of mine we’ll call Tiffany, for Christmas.
Male friend: “I’ll find one of those shops that has expensive sticks and get her something.”
Me: “What?”
Male friend: “The shops with coloured sticks, and things you put on the wall.”
Me: “What?”
Male friend: “You know. You’ve seen her coloured sticks.”
After a bit more confusion we established that he will buy Tiffany a gift/gifts at one of the many shops around town that sell the kind of painted tree branches Tiffany likes to put in vases around their house.
Male friend: “I’m not buying her sticks. There’s too many sticks in our house already.”
Me: “Well, that’s a plan I suppose. You know what you’re not going to buy.”
A few men I spoke to on Sunday knew what they weren’t going to buy their wives.
“Well, I’m not going to get that,” said a man called Robert, who was wandering in the kitchen section of a department store when I found him, and quickly replaced the lid of a casserole dish when he saw the $579 price tag.
Me: “How long have you been married?”
Robert: “Ummm….,” he did a few calculations based on his eldest child’s recent 30th birthday party, the year he and his wife finished high school and the year he completed the second year of his first degree, to arrive at a figure of 33 years marriage.
Me: “You rejected the casserole dish because….?”
Robert: “A casserole dish shouldn’t cost $579. I’m happy to pay something like that for my wife’s gift, but not for a casserole dish.”
He rejected a set of even more expensive knives because knives “send the wrong message at Christmas”, turned his nose up at glasses, couldn’t commit to a nice vase because he wasn’t sure if his household already had its fill of vases, and then shrugged his shoulders.
Robert: “I give up.”
Me: “What did you give your wife last year?”
Robert: “We went overseas. That was our present.”
Me: “Tahiti looks nice.”
I wished him well.
There were fewer men snoozing on shopping centre lounges this time around, more’s the pity. Snoozing men are as much a Christmas decoration as the big stars, trees, lights, reindeer and Santas that appear this time of year. They make me smile.
To everyone, I wish you a safe and peaceful Christmas and Boxing Day.