ULTA. Yes, it’s one of those women focused, girly stores where upper high school students host the counters and those of the female gender stroll and sniff and seek paint that makes them look like the Mona Lisa. Lots of pink, baby blues and pastels.
And this is where I found myself, in search of my wife’s favorite parfume – as the rich people spell it. Frozen two steps inside the front glassed doors, my eyes shifting around for something with which I was familiar. Overstimulated by smells and sights, I forced myself forward to the cash register lady. As I politely waited to ask her where my potential gift was, I locked eyes with someone who was standing frozen in the back corner of the bazarre. It was another guy. We were the only two among thousands – at least it seemed that way. He, holding his wife’s items and me holding my breath. A slight smile cut across both of our faces. We didn’t have to say it. We didn’t have to talk. In that moment, we knew what the word “Sacrifice” was all about.
In acknowledgement of our collective maleness and in concert, we up-knodded to each other knowing full well that neither of us HAD to be there but instead, chose to be. The Sacrifice was for our wives whom we love. The Sacrifice was so we could bring joy to their worlds and peace in our homes.
To my Buddy in ULTA I say, “Well done, good and faithful husband … Well done.”