Someone must have dropped an estrogen enhancer in my coffee, because I was standing in a Target aisle thinking, I have got to have that bag.

My wife, a veteran of the Target’s trenches, excitedly told me to try it on, which made me feel like I was in a romantic comedy where the main character’s best friend enables their shopping habit.

But seriously, it’s really hot in Texas, and carrying a backpack on my two-mile trek to the office gets me pretty sweaty. I know, I know, you think I’m a big sissy for worrying about a little sweat, but now that I’m working a real “professional” job it just doesn’t cut it to show up at work looking like someone sprayed my back with a firehose (and smelling like a horse). This bag/purse/satchel thingy was the answer.

I was about to try it on when I realized something: “Do men wear these things?” I’m not very fashion-minded, and I mostly don’t care about conforming, but would my wife be embarrassed by my accessory? (I’d never had an “accessory” before.) This was uncharted territory for a slob like me. She told me to at least wear it once in the store to see how it looked.

I slung it over my shoulder and then my wife changed everything by saying the words every husband wants to hear:

“You look like Indiana Jones.”

That was all I needed.

Of course, I bought it. It wasn’t long, however, before her words went to my head and that weekend people in Sundance Square saw me doing the Riker pose.

But you know what the residents of Fort Worth didn’t see?

Back sweat.

Not a drop.

Swish.