Lileks: Gender roles and shopping don't mix

We're looking for a new TV set on a Sunday afternoon. The old one just didn't have HDMI ports. No one needed them 10 years ago, and now you do. The TV has an actual tube, which makes you think you'll turn it on and see zombie Walter Cronkite moaning in hunger. It's so heavy I need to rent a forklift and take out a wall to get it down to the boulevard, where the Garbage Elves will spirit it away.

A salesman comes over to help. Nice guy; patient. Fields every question. I tell him I'm interested in 4K, even though I know they're working on 5K that will make 4K look like an old "Honeymooners" episode seen through Vaseline-smeared wax paper, but for now that's the highest resolution, right? If you're looking at a picture of a city from above you can get close to the screen and see a pedestrian's eyelashes?

My wife interrupts.

"Resolution is going to be the same among all 4Ks, right? What matters is the refresh rate. And what really matters is the power supply, because if that blows out after two years it's just junk."

The salesman looks at her with a curious mixture of pity and amusement. He looks at me. He looks back at her.

"When it comes to these things," he says, "I only talk to the husband."

Well.

Well. You can bet we did not buy a TV there, because A) this sort of archaic gender stereotyping is insulting to everyone, and to the women who work in 4K TV software development in particular, and B) it didn't happen.

Sorry! Made it up. Here's what really happened.

We were at a store looking for bathroom floor tile. (Annnnd you know where this is going already, right? Right.) A bathtub repair required bringing up the tile, and that prompted my wife to say a day later, "I've been thinking about the bathroom."

A phrase that makes the spouse imagine dollar bills sprouting wings and flying away out the window in flocks that choke the sunlight.

"The tile," she said. "As long as — "

"I hate it, too." For years I had looked down and thought, "This belongs in a public bathroom in a nice hotel in 1997." Nothing wrong, but just — I don't know. Meh. The longer you live someplace, the more you become impatient with everything you initially loved, but you never change anything until the Realtor suggests you spiff up this or that, and then when your house is exactly as you'd want it, you sell it.

Once we had confessed our hidden loathing of the tile, it was time to find something better. Tile stores make this easy, because 92 percent of everything is hideous. The samples are there to make you feel better about yourself for not choosing the ugly stuff. Honestly, I'd rather see a chalk outline on the floor than some of these patterns.

Alas: While I know what I want, my wife is open to possibilities if she sees something unexpected. This could mean we find something different and wonderful. This could mean I ask the clerk if they have a cot in the back because I need to hit the hay. Wake me when she's narrowed it down to nine.

This was a good day, though; we dismissed the highly polished ceramic hexagonal tile quickly enough and became suddenly intrigued by a stone buff-surface hex with minor color variations. That's where the salesman comes into the story. That's where I asked about using the medium stone hexes in the shower, as opposed to the smaller-sized — the contrast would be less pronounced and the visual flow between the floor and the shower would be easier.

He gave me that look. He gave my wife a different one. He looked back at me and said, "When it comes to these things, I only talk to the wife."

Well. WELL.

I suppose it's based on experience, on watching husbands nod like cud-chewing cows when asked to choose between one and the other, saying things like, "That looks like my sister's bathroom," which, of course, ruins everything. The guy just shuts up and thinks: Well, if I don't like it, I just won't look down when I'm in the bathroom. But it's still bracing to hear.

It would have been nice if my wife had said, "We're not going to stand here and take this sort of crude, reductive stereotyping. As it happens, my husband has excellent taste, and this is a joint decision among equals, so good day, sir." She just looked at me, and I cocked an eyebrow: You're a lawyer; can we sue for that? Hey, free tile maybe.

We went with my wife's choice, which is fine. She has excellent taste, too, and by deferring to her choice I accumulated husband points, which I can spend on a new 4K TV. If she asks if the picture is sharper, I'll say, "No, I just cleaned the dust from the screen. Now you can see every pore of the actors on 'Masterpiece Theater'!" No, you bought a TV. I saw the box in the garage.

OK. It's because I'm ambivalent about the tile, and this is my way of asserting myself. You don't like the tile? No, now I love the tile, but — you were there in the store, you could have said something. I cocked an eyebrow, wasn't that enough? A decision of this magnitude should not rely on forehead-follicle theatrics, and. …

(Fade voices out; "Honeymooners" theme fades in; credits.)

james.lileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858 • Twitter: @Lileks • facebook.com/james.lileks