Actually, I don’t mind going shopping with her at all, though if you’ve seen one mall, you’ve seen ’em all. I seldom need to buy anything for myself, though. Perhaps a shirt or two now and then at a discount outlet or Costco. JJ, however, is a most proficient purchaser and goes at her avocation with vigor and determination.

How she loves new shoes! It’s impossible for JJ to walk by a shoe department without trying on several pair. The more expensive, the better. Often, she’ll buy every pair she tries on. If she doesn’t like any of them when she gets home, she’ll have an excuse to make another trip to the store.

Once, I’d agreed to meet JJ in the shoe salon of a department store where she shops regularly. I arrived a few minutes early and took a seat, waiting for her to show up. I’ve learned to pace myself when shopping, and to sit down and rest at every possible opportunity.

My respite was short. I’d barely made myself comfortable when I overheard one saleslady whispering to the other, “Here comes Imelda Marcos.” The woman was obviously mistaken, for the person she was talking about was my wife. Strange, I don’t see the slightest resemblance between JJ and Imelda.

Ladies’ shoe departments are great for people-watching. Perhaps I should say female-watching. JJ doesn’t seem to mind my little diversion, as long as I’m not blatantly obvious.

Each department store has an entirely different type of clientele. With practice, it’s possible to check out a woman’s feet and determine instantly whether she shops at Macy’s, Nordstrom’s, or Walmart.

Most of the women’s shoe styles are hideous these days. When I was young, it was a royal insult to taunt, “Your mother wears combat boots.” Today, half of the shoes look like GI issue. Go figure. Of course, JJ would never wear any of the military-style footwear. She has far too much class.

There’s always a place to sit down in a shoe department. Not so, however, where they sell pantyhose. I wind up shuffling on first one foot and then the other, impatiently, while JJ paws through rack after rack of cellophane-wrapped paperboard envelopes that seem to have been deliberately disorganized just before we arrived.

I used to think that cosmetics departments smelled nice. Sexy, even. No more. I don’t know what they’re doing these days to the creams, lotions, moisturizers, colognes, and the myriad things women consider necessities. The combined aromas give me an instant allergic reaction and I start sneezing. So, while JJ makes small talk with a saleslady (in a thinly-disguised effort to schnorr the woman out of a few free samples of some new nostrum), I try to find a stool to sit on that isn’t being utilized by a makeup artist for a makeover demonstration. A stool situated near an open box of Kleenex.

I don’t mind the ladies’ ready-to-wear clothing department. Not only are there comfortable upholstered chairs where I can sit and relax while JJ is trying on a few outfits, often there are several fashion magazines to peruse to help me while away the time. I learned long ago that I can’t catch up on my phone calls in a department store. There’s limited cell phone reception, due to all the metal and concrete in the building.

In the fashion department, each designer seems to have his or her own private niche. Calvin Klein. Giorgio Armani. Christian Dior. Donna Karan. Oscar de la Renta. Versace. Their names are posted on the walls above their product displays in large cut-out block letters. I don’t know, perhaps the designers rent the space.

JJ seems to prefer the Italian designer DiScount and the Frenchmen Salé and Clarence (or is it Clearance? I’ve never been very good at foreign languages). All of their clothes are prominently positioned on metal racks stuck smack-dab in the middle of the aisles.

Sometimes I’ll help JJ select something from the racks. I know her size, and when I find an item that looks serviceable and the price isn’t too outrageous, I’ll point it out to her. Sometimes, she even tries the garment on. Most of the time she just rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

I no longer help JJ in the lingerie department, however. The last time I was pawing through the bra selection, trying to find styles she might like, I noticed the salesladies looking my way and giggling. And, I was given a most curious (though friendly) glance by some guy. I think he was looking for a gift for his wife or girlfriend, for he was fingering the silk panties.

The lingerie department has but one rickety old metal chair, and it’s positioned immediately outside the dressing room. Unsold tried-on undergarments waiting for a sales clerk to return them to their proper section are tossed haphazardly on a metal tubing rack directly overhead. They brush against my face or fall in my lap with the slightest provocation. Aarrgh!

I don’t think anyone ever pays retail any more—not even goyim. Certainly, not JJ. She’ll seek out merchandise that’s marked 60% off, then use a newspaper coupon that entitles her to an additional 25% discount. Plus, she tells me that if she uses the store’s credit card, because she’s a “special customer” (I don’t have the slightest idea what that means, and I’ve been afraid to ask) they’ll deduct an additional 15% or 20% from her monthly statement. In addition to all of the discounts, JJ usually has a few dollars-off coupons the store mailed her secreted in her wallet. I do believe that sometimes stores pay JJ to schlep their goods away.

Yes, JJ loves buying shoes. And, she greatly enjoys finding a good bargain. But, she has a weak spot: towels and linens. I’m sure that the department stores more than make up their losses in other departments by what JJ buys in shmattes.

A few years ago we moved into a house that has, amazingly, an overabundance of spacious linen closets—two in the master bathroom, one for each guest bedroom, and another in the hall, a total of six. JJ’s been working diligently to fill them up with towels and linens. As I noted earlier, she’s a very skilled shopper. I’m sure she’ll succeed.

There’s a candy store in JJ’s favorite mall where you can get a free sample chocolate, sampler’s choice, just by asking. I try to pass by the store at least twice each visit to the mall. Last week I was caught.

“Weren’t you here a few minutes ago?” The sales clerk grilled.

“Nooooo ...” I lied, carefully avoiding eye contact. “Perhaps you’re thinking of my twin brother. By any chance, did you happen to notice which way he went?”

I don’t think the woman bought my story, though. Next time I’ll have to make do with just one piece of candy.