At least I didn't have the audacity to call it an early Christmas gift.
It took nearly 15 years of marriage, but this weekend I resorted to justifying an impulse buy on my spouse's behalf. Thus my wife is now the proud owner of a 1981 Scorpion Sting snowmobile. Just what she always wanted — now if she can only find the matching orange helmet.
For nearly a decade, my wife has put up with the fact that I'm easily distracted by shiny metal objects — and rusty ones. Call me a simpleton, or merely a man, but I've never outgrown a childhood fascination with motorized vehicles. I still play with cars, trucks and the occasional snowmobile. Bigger the boy, bigger the toy's insurance, registration and garage space.
The problem comes when my inner child has access to a bank savings account.
Like a kid who brings home mangy cats, I have a well-documented propensity to drag the forlorn and abandoned into the garage. "Can we keep it?” says I. "It's just a little four-speed transmission left all alone with no place to go.” The latest pet project being a subsidiary of the Arctic Cat corporation that became a snowmobile industry orphan during the Reagan administration.
My wife sensed trouble when I went from "just looking” to hitching up the trailer to the Jeep.
While some subscribe to the theory that it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, I believe in full disclosure. Usually in a public place, say a library reading room, or in the nether regions of cell phone reception. This time, however, standing in the driveway I backpedaled into the oh so lame "it's not for me, it's for you” justification.
Even while the words were coming out of my mouth, I could hear the voice of reason shouting: "GOOD LORD, IS ANYONE BUYING THIS! YOU AND PLEASURE PRINCIPLE ARE ON YOUR OWN WITH THIS ONE!”
My wife raised a suspicious eyebrow as I noted that with two snowmobiles in the garage we could ride together. After a few minutes of plea bargaining, I pulled out of the driveway, trailer in tow. I smiled sheepishly in the rearview mirror. The arch never left my wife's eyebrow — and for good reason.
Proof of the male brain's inability to function on a higher level is often found in the newspaper classified section. Aside from three times divorced from reality personal ads, all you have to look for is the possessive noun wife. As in wife's 50” flat screen TV, wife's over-under shotgun and wife's snowmobile. Certainly there are spouses that own and enjoy televisions, firearms and sleds, but I suspect a fair share of these 'for sale' ads started out as XY chromosome purchases.
Funny, you don't really see many "husband's Prada handbag” ads.
For now the Scorpion Sting sits on the trailer without nary a 'for sale' sign. My goal is to start tinkering this week before the accumulating snow starts flying. After all, I'm sure my wife can't wait to hit the trail — perhaps with a matching orange helmet from eBay.
However, she might have to ride solo. I might be too busy putting together that Pottery Barn dining room table I've always wanted — call it my early Christmas gift.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com