It turned out to be the final day of doing the do for the season---Xmas/Christmas, The Peak Of Retail, Winter Solstice Sans Solace---and I was on the final leg. There in the middle of it all was setting foot in a mall for exactly one time: I had been tipped by one of my group fitness friends that a Sephora gift card was a quick, easy and even attention grabbing way for a male puzzling over female recipients to pop an exchange with Mr. Jackson into the holiday hurricane.

The trouble is they don't grow on trees, and I mean the trees you see even in down scale stores. It's a more distinctive voucher than the phone or Outback variety, and the added price is it's (they're?) only available in the name sake store. In a specific mall.

I left the car by a public park, walked past even my usual haven of Trader Joe's and braved a minute of rolling through an upscale store at which I've bought nothing ever ask me if I care to attain the pulsating collection of latter-day bazaar stalls in which the beauty place was set. It was a beauty place when I could accomplish my mission.

Which I did, while ascertaining the cards were at the register only, no commoner's harvest from a handy rack. And as I whittled down my search I noticed there were other males inside, appearing cheerful, and dressed even more informally than I. But your scribe was distinguished by not only having his wallet in one hand the entire time, but the magic debit card in the other. Anxious to escape, Dan? I had a mental picture of inserting myself as a major character in a film I saw eons ago.

"Fantastic Voyage".