Spent

Shopoholic's nightmare

 

A calculated stare. Exactly what would that mean? Does it intone a summing up of my devious actions or is she simply trying to freeze me to the spot whole she works out the total sum “wasted” by my shopping binge? Anyhow, that’s the only way I can describe that look. Freezing. Cold. Bitter. Shrewd. Calculating. That sort of thing.

I don’t, in point of fact, agree with her though. I mean, really, what doesn’t a woman understand about shopping? About the reckless need to buy, buy and buy. And buy.

And buy…

And max out her credit card…

Then borrow…

Then buy…

Ahh… the feel of wanton notes of emerald green between the fingers, slipping away like a dream into the cold black cash register drawer, neatly and professionally slip shut, locking those lovelies away from this world. Or the smooth, slick sound a gold card makes when slip through the magnetic, mesmeric slot of a computerised billing system followed by a melodic *beep* that signals that the lightweight piece of plastic is now lighter still. The sacrifice is worth it though as I have got in return many fragments of glass and plastic and metal pieces, parts, bits and portions that are filled with hopes and promises to make my life easier and richer and full of vive. Vive and vitality. And zest. Vive and vitality and zest and that tingly feeling that I now belong to a secret club  that collects many fragments of glass and plastic and metal pieces, parts, bits and portions that are filled with hopes and promises to make my life easier and richer and full of vive. Vive and vitality. And zest.

I think you get the picture.

But it should not be, the whole world tells me. It’s bad enough that women shop till they drop, but heaven forbid the men do the same. Of what earthly use, they say, would I have of a rolling pin that folds out into a coconut scraper that can also double as a car jack?

So I’m broke. So what? Time flies as they say and there’s just 27 days to go till my next pay check. And yours. That’s just 648 hours. 38,880 minutes. 2,332,800 seconds. That’s not long is it? Look at how many hundred’s of seconds have already flown by since you started calculatedly staring at me? I mean, look at all those reality TV shows where they dump these bunch of people from all walks of life  without so much as a coconut shell to survive for months on desert islands. If they can do it, why can’t we?

What was that? Eat? What do you mean eat? Ahh… you mean the act of consuming edible items for the nourishment of your body? Sure, we can do that that. Eat. Sounds simple enough. Oh I see. There is nothing to eat… well, we could grow stuff in the back yard. Home grown food. Maybe a couple of chickens? Fresh eggs everyday? Healthy that is. Healthy and nutritious. Healthy and nutritious and cheaper I’ll bet.

What was that? So what if the back yard is nothing but a bloody slabof concrete? Use you imagination woman!

There it is, that calculated stare again. And now my son’s staring at me too. Calculating and intimidating. And cold to boot.

Crap. That cold pillar of ice with a stone heart that took possession of my wife’s body the day after our wedding has opened that damnable abyss she calls a mouth yet again to spew forth further curses at me. Damnable words they are. Damnable and accursed. Damnable and accursed and hateful. Quite upsetting as well.

Return this rubbish? RUBBISH? What rubbish! These symbolise my hopes and dreams and expectations. These are opportunities to be more than just an ordinary man. I could be superhuman with these things. See! I could be like that man on TV who lost 780 pounds in two days and was blown off a bridge to fall to his own death! What a success story! I want to be a man like that. And all he had to do was wrap this plastic-elastic thing here around his waist. What? Wrap it around my neck? No, I don’t think you’ve quite got the idea dear, you see it goes around the waist like so…

What was that? You’ll show me how? No, no. It doesn’t go around the neck I keep telling you, it should go around the waist. THE WAIST! NOT MY NECK!! You stupid woman your choking me, your… choking… mmmph!

*     *     *

This is nice… Feel all warm and cuddly. Warm and cuddly and euphoric and balmy to boot. And… and… dead.

I’m dead. Now that’s weird. How on earth could that have happened? I’ve joined ranks with the departed, the deceased, and the lifeless. I’m boring, quiet, dull, uninteresting and… dead. Hey, at least that advertisement did not lie. I’ve lost so much weight, I’m hovering up here near the ceiling.

Hello, wifey dear. She’s staring at me again. But what happened to the calculation? This is more like a fearful stare. Fearful and frightened. Maybe even terrified. She sees me, of that I’m sure. My dead body lies on the floor and she’s staring right at the new me now floating right in front of her. Now what would I call that stare. Fearful I’ve said already. Fearful it is and full of dread. That’s it! A dreadful stare.

So I guess you think we’re even wifey dear… I spent your money.

And you spent my life.

Not quiet so even if you think about it is it dear?

I’ll shut up now. St’ Peter’s at the gates of my little heaven. The greatest shopping mall ever created up on Level 9. See you soon sweetheart. I’ll be back soon. There’s a special place reserved for murderers here, and I’ll be back shortly to show you the way.