The Call of the Mall

At this time of year, as Christmas lists are written and visions of sugarplums dance in other folk's heads, visions of dragging my husband to the mall dance through mine. I don't think it's accurate to say my husband hates shopping. No, "hate" doesn't convey in strong enough terms, his absolute aversion to, break-out-in-hives-from, loathing of shopping in general and malls in particular.
Furthermore, I think a lot of husbands are like this and it stems from basic gender differences in our attitudes towards shopping and dissimilarities concerning what we feel it's necessary to shop for (Yes, I can hear the politically correct screaming in the backround). Men tend to feel that only big things are worth shopping for. Big, mechanical things. Things like cars, boats and high tech sound systems. A man who blanches at the thought of buying his own socks can easily spend an entire morning at a car dealership just browsing. He even has definite opinions concerning Corinthian leather vs cloth seats. But try to explain the nuances between the peach and melon cashmere sweaters, or even why someone would want to spend that much on something to wear, then he is completely out of his element.
Is this nature or nurture? Well, the studies aren't in yet, but I opt for nature. Yes, I believe that if my husband had been raised in a vacuum and released into the world at age 30, he'd still have an avid dislike of shopping. I believe that male babies, if they could only talk, would say, "No, Mommy, not the mall! I'll drink all my bottle. I'll eat strained peas. I'll go to sleep without fussing. I won't grow up to be a sex offender. Just please don't take me to that mall place!" (Baby girls, on the other hand, would be pulling their booties on.) I believe that cave men - well, you get the picture.
Nonetheless, this Christmas season, again, I will drag my husband to the mall. He'll promise not to have a long face. He'll promise to stifle the melodramatic sighs accompanied by a glance at his watch. He'll promise not to ask, several times, "How long is this going to take?" Within fifteen minutes at the mall, he'll have broken every one of these promises. After half an hour, he'll begin dropping bags and dragging his feet. Forty-five minutes brings on the psychosomatic illnesses.
So why do I bring him with me? Do I enjoy making him suffer? Do I believe this is good for his character? Well, no, but hope springs eternal, and each holiday season, I fantasize that once at the mall, he'll have a revelation; that he'll slap his forehead and say, "What was I thinking all those years? Shopping is fun. Shopping is good. Shopping - where have you been all my life?!"
Logically, I know that this is not likely to happen. Statistically, I know the odds are better that I'll see Jimmy Hoffa buying his own socks than I'll see my husband doing so. But hey - this is Christmas! This is a time of giving, a time of good thoughts and good cheer, a time of gifts and buying sprees, a time of romance (Yes! Romance!) And on that note, I think I will go find my husband and tell him we have a date - for the mall.