We had a good Thanksgiving. We were thankful. Reflective. Humbled. Stuffed. And ... we were ready. Well, actually, the "we" amounted to a lonely, yet brave "I."

Mrs. P swears off day-after-Thanksgiving shopping, as well she should. My Dad thinks there is nothing more un-American than shopping on the Friday following Thanksgiving. But actually, it is what defines American consumerism. It is VERY American. It is the one day against which all others are measured.

This year, I threw caution to the wind and decided I'd set off by myself to see what all the fuss has been about on this huge shopping day. And it ain't a pretty site.

By my own rough calculations, I would venture to say that the number of people shopping the day after Thanksgiving is roughly twice the number of people alive on the planet. There were people everywhere. There were people waiting in line to get in line. There were people in another line waiting to get IN to a store.

It's really no wonder why the holidays are filled with gloomy, grumpy people: they all start their shopping on the day after Thanksgiving when there is really no chance whatsoever of getting the job done with any measure of glee.

It is really essential at this point that I say one thing before going any further: I am not a good shopper. Like a lot of husbands, when I am sent to the store, I go equipped with a list. I buy what is on the list, I scratch off the items I have retrieved and I put them in the cart. I write a check and I go back home. This is pretty much known as the left-brain shopping method, not the best way to shop when you're looking for a gift for someone you care about.

I am sentimentally challenged. We established that right here several years ago. Unfortunately, my disability comes shining through like the morning sun through an open window during the holiday shopping season.

I beg Mrs. P to tell me what she wants for Christmas, and if she can't think of anything, I am like a bull rider in etiquette class: I don't have the first clue.

It is impossible for me to go into a store just to find something my wife might happen to like. I could go shopping and pass store after store and not even think about browsing. <continued below>

Several years ago I tried this sort of shopping on inspiration, and, being a guy, it got me nowhere. Wanting to surprise Mrs. P, I bought for her a brown corduroy pillow, the kind with little stubby arms on it that you prop yourself up on and read while lying in bed.

I thought it was practical. She thought it was hideous. I thought it would be warm and cozy. She thought it would be cold and scratchy. I thought it would be homey if Mrs. P sat up nights reading while I lay beside her asleep.

She didn't see the same cute picture I did. Never before has an item gone so quickly from starting household lineup to garage sale reject.

I abandoned this form of inspiration-driven gift selection immediately thereafter and have never ventured back down that road.

Let me put it this way: I have no idea what Mrs. P thinks is nice. I mean, I KNOW what she likes. She tells and shows me every day. But if I had to ever go out and BUY it, forget it. I would be rendered immediately helpless.

I am probably the only guy in the world who could walk into a bath and body lotion store and buy the ONE thing that would NOT appeal to her. I could walk into a Victoria's Secret, look at a nice, satin robe, that is her favorite color AND 50 percent off and leave the store saying to myself, "She has a robe. Why would she need another one?"

Apparently women like almost EVERYTHING at Victoria's Secret. And what the women don't like, the men do. But not everything at Victoria's Secret makes for an appropriate Christmas present. Some items in that particular store are better suited for Valentine's Day or an anniversary. But we'll save that miscalculation for another day.

To make a long story short, I am again at an uncomfortable place: what to get Mrs. P for Christmas. On the one hand, she SAYS she's happy with whatever I get for her, but deep down inside, I think she wishes she could be there shopping with me so I won't accidentally pick out anything flannel or plaid or, God forbid, corduroy.

One evening this week, while perched and pecking at the computer, she asked what I was doing. "Writing about Christmas shopping," I said.

"Oh no," she grumbled. "Do you have to share our pain with EVERYONE?!"

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