Thank you, husband.I’ll bring you the receipts when I’m done.

Last night while Christmas shopping, I was approached by a store employee (a young man, probably early twenties) with this wonderful conversation starter: “You look like a nice girl to talk to!” I just looked at him, confused. “You do,” he continued. “Just doing some holiday shopping? You look like you’d be nice to talk to.” He started to move a lot closer. Yikes.

I start thinking, are you kidding me? I’ve been fixated on a monitor for the past eight hours thinking about work and websites and all the stuff I have to get done for the holidays. I am wearing a brown coat zipped up to my chin, accompanied by an old scarf wrapped around my neck once or twice. I am zoning out looking at potential Christmas gifts–I am hardly broadcasting the “talk to me” vibe. And definitely not the “hit on me” vibe.

So I quickly mention that I’m shopping for husband and re-cross my arms so that my left hand is facing out and at least he will have to look at my wedding ring the next time he says something. But the conversation continues in just the same way, only getting more and more odd–and then insulting.

I explain what I’m interested in purchasing and talk a bit about the details. I try to reroute the conversation to be focused on the task at hand, but he is not interested. When I share all the items I’m thinking of purchasing, which ends up being a reasonable Christmas investment but probably not the budget he expected to hear from a young woman who likes she’s 12, his response is, “Geez–what does your husband do for a living?!”

Oh no. Not a good thing to say ever, and a terrible thing to say to me. My heart began to pound in the way it always has when my principles are grossly violated–it’s like a social justice gauge or something. It hits a threshold and then–boomboomboomboom. Faster and faster until one of two things happens; I say something incredibly articulate and cutting and put-you-in-your-place perfect, or more likely, I show my dismay in my face, start turning red, and fumble through a response (usually accompanied by a scoffing noise of some sort).

So last night it was the scoff, the fumbled reply, and the dizzy assertion that, in fact, that’s just not how it is and he shouldn’t assume those kinds of things and, and, and…

I should not need talking points for this kind of stuff, but I could have used some at that moment.

Or better yet, the guy could have not asked the question or made the assumption to begin with. I shouldn’t have to wear my salary like a nametag to confirm my personal buying power. How frustrating that a man from my own generation would assume that a woman spending a lot of money must be doing so on her husband’s income.

I wish I could have taken a photo of the guy and posted it here for you all with a clear notice to avoid, avoid, avoid!

Maybe after Mike opens his gifts I’ll share what store it was. For now I’m staying mum so I don’t ruin any surprises.