The Man Store

I apologize for posting a day late. We are having issues with our internet.

Here is a story from February 2004. We were building our house and Younger, at the age of four, was not enthusiastic about all the resultant shopping . . .

I am no longer allowed at Lowe’s. Not according to Lowe’s. According to Younger.

“Mom,” he announced as we left the lumber department, his little hand in mine. “This is the last time you can come here, you know. This is a man’s store. And you are a ‘gurl.’ And I’m a boy. I’m not even supposed to be here until I grow up. But you can’t come back. Ever. Okay? Do you understand, Mommy?”

Oh, I understand. I, apparently, lack the correct amount of testosterone to enter a home improvement store. I must have missed the sign . . .

And then when we returned in May . . .

So, we made another trip to Lowe’s. After an hour of shifting through paint cans, wire, and other miscellaneous building materials, we stood at the checkout counter, shoulders sagging. Then Younger turned, looked at me with eyebrows drawn low over his eyes and asked, “Ain’t this the store I told you you couldn’t ever come back to?”

Yeah, yeah. I guess I snuck past that testosterone counter . . .

 

 

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