Dicks and Duds

Remember in Broken Hallelujah‘s chapter, “Pornography,” when Lauren compares her husband’s (Eric’s) frugality to “that of an elderly refugee from the Depression era.”  Oddly enough, my own husband, Adam, possesses a similar commitment to cheap (I mean frugal) living.  And, being Adam’s supportive and loving wife, I spare him–shield him, actually–from those of life’s unpleasantries that will cause him undue stress and misplaced concern.  I am not suggesting that I am, by any means, a saint (though I do consider my efforts praiseworthy), it is just that I want what is best for him.  I assume that it is just my nature to be considerate of my spouse. It is this very burden of goodness which weighs heavily upon my oldest son and me as we enter Dicks Sporting Goods store to purchase a little something to lift the dampened spirits of my generally chipper 13-year-old.

“Do you think dad will be mad if I come home with a pair of basketball shorts or some Nike socks?  You know he says I have plenty of b-ball clothes already.”  N asks, genuinely curious as to what I think his father’s reaction will be.

“This is between you and me,” I tell him.  “Besides, you have been doing a great job in school, and a little pick-me-up to jumpstart your mood after a difficult day is just not that big of a deal.”

“How about, if he notices, I’ll just say that I already owned the new thing, that I just hadn’t had the chance to wear it yet,”  he suggests, as he checks out the new arrivals rack of oversized basketball shorts his peer group seems to favor.

“No, I don’t want you to lie,” I respond, assuming my righteous mother mode, “just say it is something we bought at Dicks, and he will assume we bought it last time we were here.  Trust me–I know your father.”

As we head to purchase N’s shorts and socks, I can already tell his mood has improved.  He chats away as I go through the familiar check out procedure:  yes, we found what we were looking for; yes, we have a Scorecard number (I type my phone number into the credit card machine to get earned reward points); yes, the phone number entered is correct (I press enter); yes, we would like our receipt emailed (environmentally conscious in addition to all else!)…

Coup complete…

My phone do do do dos with a text notification, as we walk to the car…

I peek:


The email receipt was sent to Adam (creator of the account, duh)…


And–as evidenced in Broken Hallelujah–Yes, Adam, I most certainly do…

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