I was in a mall on the magnificent mile in Chicago the other day and I saw something that made me cringe and shudder in the same breath. Let me paint a setting: The store to the right of me was Mont Blanc and to the left was Max Mara. Coach was above me and Louis V. and Prada were outside. I was at the time wandering through Cristophe, where scotch glasses started at 68 a piece on sale. I was mostly looking for a reason to get out of the cold because I was dressed in my warm LA clothing and it was no match for the real world. Indoor shopping was the handiest excuse.
So we were walking through this store that I would never actually give serious thought to spending money at considering we were looking at dishes. Just dishes. I don’t care. They’ll be out of style or broken faster than the cool new shoes I can get for the same price as a set. And I can write the shoes off. I need wardrobe for shoots. I don’t need crystal goblets. Especially crystal goblets that don’t even give cause for a second glance in the first place.
Here’s what made me linger in the store for a bit though: a poor downtrodden man and the woman he must have unwittingly married. “Poor” as in helpless, not lacking in funds. He obviously had the funds. She wasn’t anything great to look at and I didn’t get the feeling her personality made her hot either. Her personality was dry at best, and hinted at the possibility of an accomplished nag beneath the surface. He waited with his hands in his pockets in the corner while she shopped the catalog with the sales girl. He was only allowed to take part in the dynamic dish shopping experience when she had made her choice. He was called to her side and she happily shrieked “look honey it’s only $1400!”, to which he responded, “yes dear”, and shuffled back to his corner.
I don’t know what dish could justifiably be $1400 but I do care that I just saw an empty human vessel. There was no man left in him. Nothing. His testicles were a waste of scrotal sack. And as a woman I don’t know how wifezilla could have been sexually attracted to him. It got me thinking about whether I’d ever end up with a man like that and I decided the answer was a firm and resounding no. I suddenly saw a pattern with all of the men who have lasted in my life and the only thing they have in common is they don’t put up with any of my shit. They somehow wriggle respect out of me without trying. Then I realized they all had incredibly large egos as well. So large in fact that sometimes I want to slap them across the face to see if it will make them reboot.
And that is why they stick around: I can’t slap them. I can’t walk on them. I can’t metaphorically neuter them in any fashion. If I slap the man I’m left with two outcomes and both end with me never seeing him again. The first is that he tells me to fuck off, which is highly likely considering I was attracted to that quality in the first place (in a reversed situation I’d tell him to fuck off too). The second is that he puts up with it. Then I have to break it off because now I too am dating a waste of scrotal sack and it’s not attractive.
Whether the means justify the end or not I think it’s a good thing. I treat the men I respect incredibly well and they return the favor. Consider this blog a solemn oath never to put an overpriced piece of kitchenware on another person’s credit card. I hold the hours they’ve spent earning that money in too much esteem and I like their balls intact.
I bet she doesn’t even cook.