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"You don't understand."

I sat there expressionless. My wife's probably right. I don't have a clue. All I know is that I am tired and cranky. Harried and hungry. I need to use the bathroom. Badly. The seat of my pants is beginning to stick to the teak wood bench that is supporting my weary frame and the 14 gift shop bags alongside it. I imagine the plastic sign taped on to the bench as I get up will be saying, "Wet Pant."

"This black dress with the gold metallic trim along the hem matches the Michael Kors shoes I have at home so much better."

I certainly am seeing stars. This trip to the mall was a big mistake. My stomach and wallet are simultaneously becoming smaller. The man behind the counter of the Ann Taylor store gives me that "I know what you're going through" look.

I decide to get a saleswoman involved. There's no way I'm going to get stuck making the decision. I still want dinner.

"Excuse me, perhaps you can help us out."

The help "us" is really help "me."

There must be some reason women ask their husbands to come along shopping with them. Is it the free time that they can spend together? It's kind of difficult talking to a dressing room curtain. And by the way, is there some reason why they can't make the doors to these rooms extend to below my knees? Does everyone need to see my tubby thighs? They give you a number card equivalent to the total amount of items that you bring in. They called the tools and hardware department when my wife came in saying they needed to get an address plaque for her. When I entered with my clothes to try on one time, the surly employee smirked and I heard her mutter to her colleague, "That's never going to fit him. He should try a tablecloth." I responded, "Keep on counting those hangers, Madam; you might get promoted to the accounting department one day."

Why do the clothes look so much better on the mannequin than on me? The ones without the heads are not very appealing. Do you think it's cheaper? I guess some haunted molding company has a bunch of craniums lined up in his warehouse.

I believe that many arguments can be avoided by not accompanying one's wife shopping. I mean does she really want me to say how I think she looks? Whatever you say, you're doomed.

"You look great, honey!"

"Clam it, Avi. We're not going for another hour."

Or when she says, "This dress makes me look so fat."

"You're right, it does make you look … I mean tight-fitted apparel is very in style nowadays.

And when you finally pay for all the items and max out all of your credit cards, she always asks the same question in that familiar tone of voice, "Why did I bother bringing you with me?"

Perhaps the man behind the counter knows.

- Avi Steinfeld

Avi Steinfeld, a Chicago native, is a freelance humor writer with a master's degree in school psychology. If you want a good laugh, reach out to him at avrahamsteinfeld@gmail.com.