Men purchase pants, women see possibilities
I should’ve known it would come. Sure as the sun comes up in the east. Sure as the tides rise and fall. Sure as Republicans will fight with the Dems, it happens.
Any time I do what I do (i.e., express my feminine side), he does what he does. He expresses his masculine side.
It happened the other day as I was preparing to leave the house. Reaching for the Precious Poppies lotion, I mentioned it. “My two summer scents have come out now.” And like clockwork, it came, a dramatic roll of the eyes paired with what I can only describe as an impressive poof.
If eye rolling were a sound, it would be this. It would, and he’s nailed it. Try as I might to replicate it, I haven’t even come close. The most I can manage is a delicate, anemic piffle. That’s it.
In his honor, I’ve taken to calling it The Schrock Poof. Which is what he poofed most impressively from his pillow when I mentioned my summer scents. And then growled, “I’ve got a scent, too.”
“Yes,” I said, rolling my own eyes delicately. “You have one, and you wear it year round.”
Mr. Schrock, I’ve learned, is quite uncomplicated in matters such as this. Having found a cologne he likes, he sticks with it. “In season and out of season,” the holy writ’s proclaimed, and he’s taken that straight to his heart.
This simple, uncomplicated world view extends to his wallet. No, really. I mean his actual wallet. While I’m debating between the BOP (Bright Orange Purse) and the bag with the cheetah motif, there’s no such choosing for him. He made his choice years ago. It’s the OBW (Old Brown Wallet) all the way, and no looking back. (And here, I sure wish I could poof.)
I feel sorry for men. When they purchase a pair of pants, that’s all they do. They buy the pants. And so they miss all the fun.
When a woman’s shopping for a new pair of pants, she sees possibilities while a man sees—pants. Upon finding a promising pair, a woman immediately begins a mental inventory of her closet. By the time (and this can take awhile) that she actually pays for the pants, she’s constructed a solid half dozen outfits in her head, down to the shoes and scarves.
Meanwhile, the man is bagging the pants. He’s hunted and gathered and found. He’ll figure out later what he’ll put up on top. And shoes? Who cares about those?
Oh, and speaking of scarves, we’re talking real fun. In my closet, there’s a hook that’s draped with all kinds. This “fun” comes in riotous colors and pastels. Comes with fringe and trim and dangly stuff just begging to be tossed over a shoulder as one wafts out the door. What fun.
With the flick of a scarf, a twist of bright color, one can transform an outfit from boring to stellar or create a new one. It really comes down to the scarf. Boy, that’s fun.
It’s inexplicable to me that all of this adventure and happiness escapes The Mister entirely. He’s “happy enough, thank you” to wear the same khakis to work every day and to sport the same style of shirts. These, he fogs with his one, year-round scent, Eau de Essence of Male.
For all of that, however, he’s remarkably indulgent, the infamous Schrock Poof notwithstanding. When I mentioned once that I “needed” a cheetah-print phone cover to match the purse and a scarf, he heard me. And then found one and brought it home. In this modern era, the hunter and gatherer still lives. Praises be.
While he’s not yet discovered his own inner coffee fanatic, he certainly encourages mine. How kind! Now, a cheerful, red Baby Keurig accompanies me on weekend speaking engagements and other small trips out of town. Bless his heart.
I’ll admit it. A woman can be hard to decipher. She has moods that can swing and clear preferences for color. She never just buys stuff; she s-h-o-p-s. She can change her mind as quick as her outfit, right down to that scarf and those shoes. Yes, she can.
As Kid Kaboom said recently after a frustrating encounter with a female, “Girls are like those safes that have combinations that change every hour. You never know what the numbers are.” His khaki-clad father, I noted, was nodding.
There is a bit of truth to it (I’m a girl; I can say it). Blessed, then, is the man who sticks with his girl and listens, throwing in the occasional gift. He may roll his eyes with a head shake and poof, but he’ll be adored for life. Yes, he will.