This weekend we all went into the city because the summer writing camp that M had attended had arranged with a bookstore for the kids to give readings from their work. M did very well with his reading; he spoke clearly, and even made periodic eye contact with his audience. Afterward, M stayed in the bookstore to browse while E and I went to a coffee shop so E could refuel.
As we stood on the sidewalk with her coffee, pondering whether there was anywhere nearby we could all go for lunch, E mentioned that somewhere across the street she vaguely remembered there being a nice women-oriented “adult” store. She commented that it was a shame we couldn’t go check it out, because we had M with us. I pointed out that M was in a bookstore (a place that we typically have to pry him out of when we want him to leave) and so this was actually the perfect opportunity.
After a little wandering around, we finally found the store. Now, we’re not the sort of people who like toys or movies or exotic costumes. But we have been wanting to buy a better massage oil than the sticky pine-scented stuff we got as a free sample somewhere. And if we’re ever fortunate enough to find a book for “50 Lovemaking Positions for Middle-Aged Women with Stiff Backs, Achy Knees, and a Cat Who Insists on Sleeping on the Bed” then we’d buy it in a heartbeat.
So we enjoyed the chance to do a little shopping; we especially liked that they sold sample sizes of various things, and also had little bottles of massage oil we could smell before deciding what to buy. We were rather amused to get a punchcard at the register — every $10 spent is one punch, accumulate 10 punches and get something free. Hey, it’s just like buying milk at the old corner store.
And most of all, we enjoyed the rather illicit feeling of sneaking off to the adult shop while our teenage son was oblivious in a bookstore. He didn’t even notice that we’d been gone a little longer than it takes to buy a cup of coffee.