VENUS & MARS

We were making a spectacle of ourselves at a table outside of Starbuck’s; Kebu, the toddler and I. Cheerios and dog treats dotted the pavement. Vivienne repeatedly threw her bottle to the ground with a look that said, “I like the sound of hard plastic hitting cement and then echoing all through the square and disturbing one and all and I defy you to stop me.” I retrieved it a few times then tired of the game; which only made her unleash the dreaded Banshee screech from hell.
I can assure you it was quite a show.
Well-dressed women coming for their daily brew hauled small dogs on the end of ornate leashes. Invariably these toy dogs displayed ‘small dog complex’ and went into a virtual barking frenzy at sight of Kebu. Our regal Akita would sniff the air in their general direction and then turn her head and ignore them. Strangers stopped by to admire the baby or the dog and each would perform their requisite tricks; shaking hands for Kebu and smiling and waving for the baby girl. It was a real three ring circus.
My good friend Bill arrived and from fifteen feet away I could tell he had on new shoes; bright white and gold sneakers that reminded me of the Puma track shoes I wore while running the ½ mile in high school. These shoes would have stood out anywhere, but especially on my buddy. Bill, like me, is an ex business executive, and, again like me, thinks the height of sartorial splendor is a crisply pressed – lots of starch, please -- long sleeved button down shirt matched with khakis whose crease could cut paper, all bottomed out by sensible dark hued shoes. In other words he worked for IBM his entire career and he still dresses as if he were going out to make a sales call on a customer.
I think he looks first-class.
When he had got his coffee, said hi to Viv and given Kebu a treat, I said to him, “Those are some nice shoes. Where did you get them?”
He looked at me with a hangdog expression while a shudder passed through his lanky frame and said, “My wife took me clothes shopping.”
“You poor man.”
“Brother, you don’t know the half of it. I was minding my own business, watching the Auburn – Alabama game…”
“Best game of the year,” I interjected.
“Don’t I know it,” he agreed. “And the next thing I knew, Tess walked into the room and announced she was taking me shopping for some new duds.” At this he stopped and shook his head with a slightly dazed expression, the way a person will when they have seen a really ugly traffic accident.
“And shortly after that,” he continued. “I was driving us to the mall. And shortly after that I was wearing these new shoes.” And he looked down at his snazzy shoes as if their presence in his life still surprised and offended him.
Personally, I liked the shoes, but I could see how they were hauling some heavy baggage for Bill. I mean, on the one hand, he had football, which most men love to watch endlessly, and on the other hand, he had shopping for clothes, which most men find excruciating.
Later that day I was thinking of Bill and I was reminded of the tired old maxim: women are from Venus and men are from Mars. And there is just enough truth to this venerable trope to lend it merit today. And I can think of no better example than my wife’s attitude toward shopping as opposed to mine.
Succinctly; she loves it, and I hate it.
I should first make some disclaimers; my wife is not a shopaholic, nor am I a total slob. I think we are probably fairly representative of your average couple. We hold similar views on many important subjects but when it comes to shopping we could not be more dissimilar.
It is not rare for my wife Rochelle to go shopping for an entire day and come home with a pile of clothes that she then hangs in her closet. Make note; she is careful not to remove the tags from the clothing. Over the course of the next year she will occasionally dip into this cache of clothes, try an outfit on and then decide to wear it. Only then does she remove the clothing tag. If at the end of a year she has not worn an outfit she takes it back to the store for a full refund.
She promises me that this not unusual behavior for a woman.
Now contrast this with my history of shopping. In October 2004 Rochelle and I were in New York City, visiting with our fashionable friend Bruce who ran his eyes up and down my clothing (yes, khakis, button shirt, etc) and said; “Jeff, really?”
I expressed with some incredulity that I was dressed quite spiffy. My wife laughed in the background. This didn’t help my cause any.
“No, you are not well dressed,” Bruce told me. “We’re going down to Soho to get you some clothes.”
“Yahoo!” Rochelle the traitor enthused. “I can never get him to go shopping.”
“Girlfriend,” Bruce said to Rochelle, “we are gonna dress Grampa up!”
So I spent that afternoon being hauled around Soho by the two conspirators. I got the full ensemble, Polo Jeans that cost me $70 (I had never paid more the $15 dollars for Jeans), stylish shirts – sans button down collars – handsome belts and even shoes. I spent more money for clothing that one afternoon than I had paid in the previous two decades. And though I thought it a horrible scandal to pay the exorbitant prices, I went along good naturedly because the two of them were having so much fun playing dress up with a live mannequin.
If you didn’t mind constantly stepping into undersized changing rooms and contorting your body to fit into ever-tighter jeans and shirts, it was even kind of fun. I got into the spirit of the thing and for an ephemeral instant experienced the joy that shopping must bring to untold women. Then I got grumpy again.
And here is the absolute truth; I haven’t been clothes shopping in the six years since.
In fact, as I write this I am wearing a pair of jeans that I bought that afternoon. It would horrify Bruce to know that I am still wearing clothes I bought over 6 years ago, but they still fit, and they are still the most stylish clothes I own.
Here is another fact; I frequently wear a Pendleton shirt that my mother gave me on Christmas Day in 1970. It fits me to this day, and doesn’t have but one hole in it.
I doubt any women are wearing clothes from that time period, unless to a 70’s retro party on Halloween.
When my jeans wear out I will buy replacements, I promise you. And I will most likely be wearing the stylish shirts from NYC to parties for at least another decade or two. Bruce has great taste in clothes and they are by far the most fashionable clothing I possess.
To net it out – men are best at watching football and women are best at shopping.
Each sex should stick to what it does best.
And then guys like my unfortunate friend Bill won’t end up wearing shoes that remind people of a 1970’s high school track meet.