Last weekend, my wife and I headed for the mountains of Asheville, N.C. OK, I should say that my wife dragged me to the mountains of Asheville.

Before I go any further, I should say two things. No. 1, I love my wife, and No. 2, she didn’t exactly drag me to Asheville as much as asked if I would go to Asheville with her for something she really wanted to do. And I also should say that I never get dragged to Asheville, because I dig the town and would love to live there before I have to retire (not that I will be able to afford to live there by the time I retire).

The reason I said “dragged” was that we were going to the Craft Fair of the Southern Highlands, and I am usually not a fan of such activities.

Like most men, I am able to shop — just as long as I know what I am getting, we go and get it and we leave. And, like most men, I am even able to amble around a while in search of something that hasn’t yet been identified but I know the store has it. But when you send me into the lion’s den of shopping for little or no purpose, that’s when I start to get a little twitchy.

Last year at the Craft Fair, I was trapped in that latter category. There were approximately a hundred or more booths strewn throughout the Asheville Civic Center selling all manner of wares. They had the jewelry and the iron works and the paintings and the sculptures and the woodworks and, well, just about everything crafty you could want.

But that was just it. We didn’t know what we wanted. We just knew we wanted something. But we didn’t necessarily know that what we wanted would be in the walls of this place. We were just hedging our bets. It was the worst of all worlds for the shopping male. There was no true purpose.

So, this year, my wife thought she would be taking a friend to this Craft Fair. We had two tickets already in hand and thought it best to take a like-minded crafty person with her. They could hang out, marvel over the massive talent these artists have and buy or not buy at their leisure. (And I wouldn’t have to answer the question, “What do you think of this?”)

Sadly, her friend was unable to go, so my wife immediately turned to me to attend. Sure, I got to see my former cousin-in-law at last year’s show, and I even met a basket weaver who knew my mother from the old days in Ohio (she is from Parkersburg, W.Va.). But I still had to answer the questions and buy things, and I had no idea what they were.

Again, a male shopper’s hell.

But it was taken in stride, and we got through it. I only moderately annoyed my wife with the stock answer of “If you like it, I like it.” And it was actually a good time.

Turns out, at the end of the day, there was a purpose to this whole shopping excursion. It made my wife happy. And with football season coming up in a month or so, I’m going to need all of the brownie points I can get.