To all you men, I only have this to say:

I spent the weekend in North Carolina with two chics who embody all that I'm told makes the female species great. They're cute, fun, smart sense of fashion, and they like to shop. At malls.

Then there's me. I've been told that I'm a shame to my fellow females. I hate rings, I think diamonds are a waste of money (from crying out loud, who pays that much money for a rock??), I hate malls, and I’d take a Red Wings game (or any game for that matter) over shoe shopping any day of the week. For the sake of my friends, I’ve tried to be more fashion conscientious. But we all know I’m pretty much a lost cause.

So it should come as no surprise that, while we all get along wonderfully well, the mall finds us heading in different directions. When the girls are feeling generous, they point me in the direction of the closest Barnes & Noble and let me amuse myself there while they spend hours hitting something like every store on every floor of the entire mall. And they were generous...for the most part.

Except this once. We walked into this department store and simultaneously there's this "Oooooooooooo!!!! This is it!!! This is the place for the purses!!!" Maybe it was the deer-in-the-headlights look that gave me away, but Moose immediately latched onto my arm and said ever so sweetly, "C'mon Tiff, you'll like it. You can't always just look at books."

And, as all good friends (fools?) must do from time to time, I indulged their intense need to shop for purses and wandered after them.

Holy freakin' heck. Inside the four walls of this prison they call a "department store" is a cell dedicated strictly to the display of bags. Big ones, little ones, black ones, blue ones, fuzzy ones, smooth ones - anyone else feeling nostolgic for Dr. Seuss? Never mind. So there are rows upon rows upon rows of these...things...that apparently I'm supposed to be drooling over. And a conversation begins that goes like this:

Moose: "Ooooo....look at this one! No, look at this one. OH! Oh! Wait....look at this one. I like this one."
Me: "Okay."
Moose: "Which one do you like?"
Me: "I have a purse."
Moose: "Ummm....yeah. One. It's black. You can't wear it with everything."
Me: "Why not?"
Moose, sighing deeply: "Tiffany!!!"
Me: "What?!"
Moose: "I have two deep rows of purses in my closet, and I still need more. You cannot survive with only one purse."
Me: "Huh?"
Moose: "I'm serious. We're finding you another purse."
Me: "No."
Moose: "Yes."
Me: "I don't want one."
Moose: "But you need one."
Me: "I have one."
Moose: "More. You need one more."

I continue wandering. In the time that Jayme and Moose have each looked through about 4 shelves, I have managed to peruse the entire purse section four times. Well, peruse might be too strong of a word. Wander aimlessly with a blank, forsaken look on my face is probably a little closer to reality.

And so it is that I feel compelled to offer this heartfelt apology:
*clears throat*

To all the men of this world:

Those poor souls who must put up with their wives, girlfriends, sisters, mothers and (insert other group names here) shopping for hours on end in malls and department stores, laboring over whether the brown or the green or the floral patterned bag would best match whichever outfit they have in their heads at that moment (an outfit they may very well not even own yet) --

Those indulgent spirits who allow themselves to be dragged around for hours while (insert name of your significant other here) tries on half the shoes in a 20-mile radius of your house --

Those men who are more sympathetic and humoring that I, who find it in their hearts to try and enjoy themselves during this most excruciating form of self-torture --

To all you men, I offer this heartfelt apology:
I. Am. Sorry. I am so, so, so sorry. Sorry for what women have become. Sorry for their addiction to the malls. Sorry for their fetish over purses. Sorry for their need to have more shoes than outfits. Sorry for their need to buy it because, after all, "It's on SALE!"

It's all I can say. I'm sorry.