For Presidents Day, my husband and I decided to go to Bellevue to use the last of our Christmas gift cards on some good old home entertainment. Gift cards are one of my husband’s favorite things in life, right next to hockey and Xbox on the list of mankind’s greatest recent inventions, so we have a lot of them. He loves to give them. He loves to get them. He loves to give them to me for safekeeping.

As I’m not in favor of carrying eleventy-billion cards around in my purse, they usually end up in a box we both completely forget about. For two years. Getting to the bottom of them all was cause for celebration, is what I’m saying, so first we went to lunch at Paddy Coynes Irish Pub.

After an extremely filling meal of pilsner and fries we window shopped at Macy’s, breezing through the racks of blouses and ties as quickly as we toss through the Sunday inserts – that is, until we ran across the display of Ralph Lauren Olympic-wear. For a good 20 minutes we distracted ourselves with a debate between “Oh my gosh, this sweater would look so good on you” and “Yes…but it’s $180. For a sweater.”

For the record, comment B was mine. Ladies, I don’t know what was wrong with me, but I just want this in print for the next time the subject of any budget comes up, ever, that I voluntarily did not take advantage of an opportunity to let my husband buy clothes for me. I must be coming down with swine flu.

Leaving the mall, we headed to Best Buy where we were surprised first by a wrong turn into the Home Depot lot, then by a mob of for-hires who swarmed our car thinking we’d pulled in to buy parts for a project. Slowly driving past and around, we parked next to Best Buy and watched the flurry kick up again as a truck entered and a couple started loading their large pallet of wood.

We used to joke that we should buy stock in Best Buy. Rather than shoes or clothes or drinks on Saturday night, Trav and I have always preferred indulging in electronic bits and bytes. But for a very rare occasion, we’ve never seemed able to leave that store without dropping at least $100. So, with the advent of our current economy and my recent job loss, we have not shopped there in a very long time.

On this particular visit, we took much more time going through the movie and game selections, determined to stay on budget and maximize our gift card. Did I really, really, need season one of Battlestar Galactica? Should we even bother buying a DVD, now that everything’s Blueray and we obviously won’t be upgrading for some time? Should we get Left 4 Dead or Legos Rock Band?

A call to an online buddy confirmed which game we’d get more play out of, and after much hand-wringing, I chose HBO’s John Adams over sci-fi eye candy. The idea of bringing home some perspective on the history of American politics felt comforting.

Making our way to the register, we made our purchases and headed to the exit. Where we were immediately stopped as the store greeter attempted to recall two very large men who set off the shoplifting alarm and kept on walking.

“Excuse me, sir. SIR! I’m going to have to ask you both to come back into the store.”

They stopped and considered him. Swaggering slowly back inside, they waved their open hands at their sides, making their baggy coats swing. “I ain’t got nuthin’, man.”

“Sorry, sirs, but I just need to check you.”

Watching the scene in front of me, the articles I’ve read about Target and Walmart customers being harassed for not showing their receipts when they exit, and the ensuing debate between civil liberties and the inconvenient reality of everyday life immediately came to mind.

“I ain’t got nuthin, see?” the first man patted his chest and flipped open his coat. The second stood motionless and menacing, eyeing the clerk with disdain. We stood back, willing to wait until they were done, but the clerk motioned us forward.

On instinct, I walked forward, trying to get out of the way as quickly as possible. Halfway through the detectors, the alarm went off. As I turned back, the second man briskly stepped forward, saying “This is dumb, man. I’m going.”

Before I knew it, two men the size of college football players were rushing past me, and as I watched them go I saw glittering metal and rubber cords falling from their coats, bouncing off the pavement. The first man took off running; the second paused to pick up as much as he could. Half stumbling, half grabbing, he glanced back at me as if to consider what I was thinking.

Not much, it turns out. Listening to the clerk behind me call security on his radio, all I had the presence of mind to do as the thieves peeled out of the parking lot was notice that their car was silver and looked somewhat like an Acura RSX. I couldn’t tell you exactly how tall or old they were, or what they were wearing.

But I can tell you I felt like an idiot. In the midst of a real-life conflict, I had absolutely no instinct to do anything. I’m still not sure what the right thing to do would have been. All I know is it was awful, and to quote man No. 2, very, very stupid.