Word Count 466
By Sharon Collins
As there are Altars of Estrogen, namely TJ Maxx and Pier One, at which many a husband dread the yearly Christmas-kneeling, there is also such a Temple of Testosterone to which I am a recent initiate. This temple of hewn pine and leather, aka Bass Pro, I have shunned, wise feminine-heretic that I am, for years. Of late though, I was required to break my vow of abstinence, as Himself requested we enter this Crypt of Tackle and Camouflage together ; thus my pilgrimage began.
Needless to say, like any sensible novice, my senses were on high alert. I planned to watch with devotional intensity for any item, this impossible-to-buy-a-gift-for-man’s, hard-to-please-eyes might linger on for more than two seconds. This nearly prayerful-focus is the reason I bypassed the Man-Cave-Nave. Well, that and my purse got snagged on the turnstile. (The marketing genius who came up with the idea of a turnstile at the entrance deserves a raise. What genius. It separates, literally separates, the incoming congregation, thus giving Himself the desired Alpha Male positioning.
But back to the Man-Cave-Nave. Now I have seen and even complimented stores on the occasional Husband’s Bench, but Bass Pro has taken the Husband’s Bench concept to Martha Stewart-heights. (Forgive me Martha, for taking your name in vain, but I can’t remember the names of those cute twins on HGTV right now.) There to my right, illuminated in the halo-glow of Birch-bark lampshades, lay in an entire chapel of comfort: leather sofas, a huge stone fireplace, and I wager a fridge, camouflaged as a fallen log coffee table, to hold the communion beer. Sadly, though, I did not see this sanctuary until we were leaving. If I had, I would have plunked myself down on a piney pew and whipped out my knitting, which would have broken several commandments I am sure, but heck, I have socks to knit for Christmas.
Said temptation was avoided and confession thankfully unnecessary. Because, if you will recall, my purse and I had penance to perform at the turnstile. In hindsight, however, I am glad that I missed the Man-Cave-Nave, as I would have retreated there for the duration of the service and missed the muskellunge large enough to eat me, more green and brown mottled clothing than I believed existed in the entire world, and an architecturally perfect suet feeder. Finally someone built a suet feeder that can support more than a nuthatch or downy woodpecker. We get the larger, hairy version and an occasional Flicker. So even though I might have been excommunicated for my lack of appropriate awe, I am so glad I finally decided to worship there. Oh, and no, I didn’t find Himself a Christmas Present…I may have to make another piligrimage to that other temple of testosterone, Tractor Supply.