Get the picture? By Sherry Hopkins

(Second of two parts)

I started my story last week about purchasing a new television set for our home. This, as they say, is the rest of the story.

All the components were in the house: the television, a new DVD/CD player (our old one suspiciously quit during this whole hullabaloo), and the console/stand. Nothing had been connected to one another because we are waiting on satellite guy.

So it will sit and collect dust until the satellite guy comes to hook it all up.

 In the meantime dear Don said he thinks we should have a home entertainment system. You know the surround-sound thing that makes you think you’re in a movie theater? I suggested we wait until we hook everything up and see what the BIG TV sounds like first. Maybe with such a BIG TV we won’t need any additional sound. Ok, said Don. I’ll wait.

It turns out that that wasn’t exactly the truth. He meant to wait. His intentions were of the highest. Yeah, right. Just try to keep a man away from his gadgets and see what happens. By Sunday night he had worn me down. I could no longer counter his reasons for a sound system. I know when I’m licked.

Monday evening after work here he came with the system in a box almost as big as the television itself. I was mad. Very, very mad. So I sat fuming while he tore open the box and assembled the parts like a kid on Christmas morning. He knew I was mad but chose to ignore that little fact.

At one point while positioning one of the many speakers he asked my opinion about where I thought it should go. Big mistake. Were we both not conscientious objectors, World War III would have ensued.

“Don’t ask me where to put your speakers,” I snapped, “If you want ’em bad enough to break your word then I don’t care where they go.”

“Break my word?” Don asked. “How did I break my word?”

“You agreed that we would wait to see if we needed a sound system before purchasing one,” I countered.

At this point looking defeated Don started putting everything back in the box.

“No,” I said through clenched teeth. “You don’t have to take it back, it obviously means a lot to you.”

“Oh, I’m taking it back. It’s not worth fighting over,” declared dear Don, seething as he tried to control his temper.

“Well, if you take it back then I’ll go back and re-buy it, so there.”

At this point I can’t really repeat the whole conversation verbatim. Suffice it to say it wasn’t a pretty thing to witness.

I must interject here that I didn’t want a sound system from the very beginning. I thought it a foolish waste of money (like a 42” TV wasn’t enough) and that the sound coming from the set itself would be more than sufficient. I have since learned the hard way that it’s a guy thing, not necessarily a girl thing.

The next morning brought a little peace and some reconciliation. I implored dear Don to keep the sound system and I would try to be a little more tolerant of guy things. To myself I thought it’s such a big waste of money.

Thursday afternoon the satellite guy showed up and drilled and ran wire and hooked up things until we were ready to go. When dear Don got home the first thing he did was hook up the new sound system.

Skeptically I listened, refusing to take part. He put on a DVD with a lot of vrumphhhhhh; you know, a lot of bass sound. He turned it up to decibel levels not meant for man or beast. I turned towards the sound and my jaw dropped. In about five seconds flat I was hooked. I mean addictive-hooked. Lovin’-it, can’t-live-without-it, where-have-you-been-all-my-life hooked.

This is a hard thing to admit. I don’t want to love it; I don’t even want to like it, and for sure I don’t want to be wrong. I don’t want dear ol’ Don to get the idea that I can give in and really like guy stuff. Not after all these years. I have my reputation to consider.

What if this gets out? What next? Will we be buying stadium seating with little cup holders for our cherry Icees and big buckets of popcorn? Will we need to put in a concession stand with Junior Mints and Milk Duds and charge neighbors to watch while pigging out?

Giving in is scary. Admitting you’re wrong is scarier still. This is probably not going to be a recurring theme, me admitting when I’m wrong. So let’s just for Don’s sake mark it down for posterity. On Thursday evening November 1, 2007, I was wrong about everything. Now from that moment on I expect to be right.

You get the picture.

(Contact Sherry at sherryhopkins@bellsouth.net)