After a particularly hellish month and a half of work, I was blessed recently to have four whole days off with my wife. This may not sound like a big deal to many people, but in a mixed marriage in which one partner works retail and the other doesn't, days off together happen as often as Michael Jackson being allowed to take third-graders from an all boys school on an unsupervised field trip to Neverland.

It started, as our Sundays often do, with a visit to our church. Typically, at some point during the proceedings, sleep apnea or a late night of writing will necessitate strategic napping followed by strategic elbows to my ribs from Judy. I'm trying to stop napping by reading along with the readings. However, once the sermon starts, all bets are off. Don't get me wrong; I count Pastor Rod as a close friend and find his voice both reassuring and soothing. Perhaps it is a little too soothing, and therein lays the rub. At any rate, the excuse that I'm just concentrating really hard when my eyes are closed is starting to lose its legs.

This particular Sunday would be different, however. The pastor asked us to participate in his sermon. Judy and I, as well as several kids from our youth group would serve as a living parable to prove the point that there is more than one way of looking at things. As I would find later, my nap clock would not be ignored.

We left church and proceeded to a newly opened shopping center in our area. We had decided to take in a movie and went to see what was showing. The movie we decided on would not be showing for another hour and a half, so we decided to have a leisurely walk and take in the new shops. This was a rather pleasant experience as this new center was laid out in an open-air, old town square manner. This turned out to be ideal for walking and taking in the sunshine on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. It was a homey corporate version of Main Street, U.S.A. The irony that most of the people here had driven right past their own small town's Main Street, giving the fiscal finger to their hometown merchants, was not lost on me.

We walked past myriad restaurants and clothing stores. All the while, we were serenaded by soothing soft rock music wafting from strategically placed outdoor speakers throughout the center, insofar as Dave Matthews may be considered soothing. Judy decided to check out one of the clothing stores and was delighted beyond speech to find bras without under wires.

"Ooooh.... I think I'll go try some of these on."

"Whoa. Wait; women can try on underwear?" I asked.

"Well.... yeah."

"So you have to put them on over your shirt or something?

"No."

I was alternately disgusted and aroused by this revelation; mostly aroused. Memories of trying to crash my sister's junior high slumber parties come flooding over me like the smell of Ben Gay at a senior center.

As I imagined Judy donning unmentionables that had potentially cradled several other equally endowed women's mammarian bits, I started to wonder what would happen if this same policy was extended to men.

"Sir, would you like to try those low rise briefs on?"

"I guess."

"The dressing room is right over there."

Five minutes later: "What do you think, sir?"

"I'm going to pass," I say handing them back.

"Ummm... sir, these are.... Well, these are... soiled."

"Yeah, about that; you see we had Indian food for lunch, and I have a cold."

"Yeah, so."

"So, I had this big sneeze, and I sharted. Thanks anyway though; I might come back."

Truly, I consider myself a reasonably well-groomed, nay, even hygienic man, and yet having seen the inside of my drawers, I could not imagine wanting try on those that have touched another man's posterior.

After that, we enjoyed six-dollar, Haagen-Dazs ice cream cones, watched kids run through fountains, and adjourned to our movie where I promptly fell asleep.