I know there are guys who like to shop, but you can’t count me as one of them.

I walk into a store. I scope out the shortest cashier lines. I set up my built-in radar. I find what I need. I buy it. I’m out of there.I think guys like me are descendants of the caveman. The Neanderthal picked up his spear, went into the woods, killed the first animal he saw, dragged it back, and ate his meal.Now if the Neanderthal woman might have done the hunting, she first would have looked at each spear before she picked the one she liked. After she went into the woods, she’d pass up easy shots at several animals until she found the perfect one to bring back home for dinner.When I shop with my wife, it’s always the same routine. We’ll walk in a food store for three items. I zero in on the first, then head straight for the second. Meanwhile my wife is still at the front of the store examining the snack selections for the kids. Politely I return to her. The Neanderthal man in me spends five minutes hunting down and collecting his items, but my lady takes an hour and fills the cart with five times the stuff we need.I dread a shopping trip with my wife into a women’s clothing store. The first thing I do is look for a place to sit down. There is none. I’ve always thought that women’s stores should have a lounge area with a TV like a waiting room in a doctor’s office. It’s a win-win. The man relaxes. The woman spends more money in the store.While my wife looks through every rack of clothing and tries on a half dozen outfits, I have one eye on the checkout lines and another on a mother who’s pushing a cart with a screaming infant. Her other kid is ripping clothes off of hangers in the clearance aisle.Finally, it’s time to leave. As I approach the checkout, I hear, “Register three is now open.”It’s my lucky day. One customer darts in front of me carrying a just a few items. I’m right behind her, waving at my wife who has stopped to look through the one rack she must have missed.Suddenly an earthquake strikes me full force.“That skirt is not $18.99,” says the lady in front of me to the cashier. “It was marked on sale for $8.99.The cashier calls her manager who ambles from the back of the store like she’s carrying a refrigerator on her back. She picks up the item and shuffles her feet to the back of the store from where she came. A month later, or so it seems, she returns to show the customer the number one in front of the “$8.99” on the ticket.“Well I don’t want it then.”I look behind me. The line is about a dozen deep now. The manager has to do an override. Customers from other checkout lines are leaving the store before me. I want to slap that smile off the mannequin in the store window.I slink behind my wife into the parking lot.“I’m going to step in Marshalls for a minute,” she says. “Why don’t you wait in the car and pull up front when you see me come out?”Thinking why wait until she comes out, I pull up my car as soon as she enters Marshalls. Suddenly, spinning lights appear along side me.“This is a fire zone,” says the mall security man. “You can’t park here.”I drive back into the lot. The next thing I hear is my cellphone ringing.“Hello?” I answer, wiping the sleep of a nap from my eyes.“I’ve been waiting. Where are you?” asks my wife in an angry voice.Defeated once again, I pick her up and drive toward the exit. She grabs my arm.“Stop at TJ Maxx over there. I have to exchange a red tank top for a white one.”I wait again in the parking lot, wondering what happened when a Neanderthal killed a furry animal that was the wrong color for his kid’s winter coat.