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For me, the phrase "hardware store" brings two things to mind. First, the smell of dirt mixed with paint fumes and second, the fact that no matter how careful I am while in a store, I always seem to walk away with the dust of some mysterious gray substance on my hands. My fiancé, however, loves hardware stores. Recently, Craig asked if I wanted to accompany him to a small, independently-owned store that he'd never visited. Temporarily forgetting my distaste of such things, I agreed.

Craig was armed with the tool that he wanted to replace as we approached the counter, which was manned by a teenage kid with an acute expression of boredom on his face. Wordlessly he passed Craig's tool to an older gentleman wearing roughed-up Levi's and suspenders. The gentleman stared at it, intrigued, then gesturing for us to follow, led us to an aisle filled with similar-looking parts. He and Craig began talking, and another man meandered by and joined in the conversation. I stood on the perimeter of the pack and quickly lost interest. My eyes roved the shelves on a quest for something that might pique my curiosity. Saws, screwdrivers, vices... my search turned up nothing. The conversation was winding down, and as the gentleman helping us squeezed behind me to leave, he hesitated and then gave me a fatherly pat on the shoulder. "Good luck," he said sympathetically. He had probably seen many couples like us in his store and recognized my glazed expression.

Knowing I was going to be there awhile, I decided to make the best of it and began to explore.

The store was large, the layout haphazard and disorienting, and I got lost very quickly. No matter where I went, I always seemed to return to the same dirty napkin lying on the floor. Apparently even employees lost their way, because I heard a man yell, "Anybody seen Lloyd?!" Another unseen man replied, "Nope, not for about 20 minutes." The aisles were barely wide enough for a full-grown man to walk down and were crammed with stuff up to the ceiling. Used coffee mugs sat randomly on shelves as if abandoned by employees sidetracked by the search for obscure hardware. The intercom system consisted of employees yelling back and forth to each other. Several things defied logic, such as the bucket with a pair of dirty boots in it or the medium-sized rock sitting on a shelf with "Not for sale" written on it. An interesting non-sequitur to the overall ambience was the opera music gently playing in the background.

The phone, positioned for no apparent reason in the middle of a display of work gloves, had a sign taped on it that read, "Hang up when not in use." I meandered to the back and encountered a large sign over a doorway that read, "Employees Only — get out before we throw you out." Strangely, it did not come off as confrontational, just direct. The signs around the bathroom were the most ominous. A biohazard sticker was posted prominently, and someone with a penchant for telling the truth had handwritten on the door, "Very scary restroom."

I began paying attention to the people inhabiting this strange universe. The customers went about their shopping with an absorption unique to hardware-store devotees. I observed one man examining a hammer for ten minutes. The fact that I stood for ten minutes and watched him do this is not important. Another man tested out a shovel by mock-digging a hole in a corner of the store; he even began panting. For reasons I can only assume, one man wandered by wearing welding goggles. In retrospect, I doubt I looked any more normal than these men as I hovered around, staring at everything and everyone. No one looked twice at me, even when I began talking to myself.

Back home, I realized something surprising: I'd actually had a good time. Rather than going to the store to shop for items, I had gone shopping for experiences, and it had kept me occupied far better than examining the latest in lawn equipment. My musings were interrupted when I glanced down and discovered the mandatory grey film coating my fingers. I scrubbed with soap, but the substance proved stubborn. Rather than getting irritated, I made a mental note to buy a better soap. I had a sneaking suspicion that the grey dust and I had not seen the last of each other.

Marie J. Nelson is an NLP Master Practitioner and a Licensed Massage Therapist. She lives with her fiancé, Craig, and their cat, Miso. Marie enjoys reading, dancing and occasionally antagonizing their cat.

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