Pack Horses

I love seeing the mostly middle aged men come into the bar, late afternoon, usually carrying the heaviest of the shopping bags that the Mrs. couldn't handle due to her own collection, looking for a place to sit and drink to drink in any form or fashion they can find. They have that glazed over, shell shocked look soldiers get after spending a few winters in WW1 trenches taking too many grenades and gas attacks. They usually lock on to ESPN like a heat seeking missile or give me that pleading look over the rim of whatever drink they're inhaling that begs "please talk to me about anything but shopping".

You have to give it to these guys. They're troopers for roaming the minefields of one boutique and woman's shoe store after another. They sometimes come in multiple times. I almost feel bad when their phone rings or the wife comes by with a few dozen more bags and I get that shot of terror look that not only means the beer fest must end but its back to Thunderdome for more credit card swipes.

To all the soldiers out there on the front lines, I pour out a little for you. Maybe one day it'll be me conducting recon on the bars I pass as I'm the family pack animal for our mini vaca's shopping spree.