I don’t need a woman to dress me. I did when I was 2, but not now. Yet women often like to think they need to dress a man, give him a little more flair, give him some style, and this can be disastrous. Especially if you’re a single woman and you think you like a guy.
Want to see him bolt faster than hearing you have herpes? Then force him to wear a Giorgio Armani suit when he’s a perfectly happy, casual kind of guy. Better have a Rosetta Stone dictionary handy. You’ll be able to look it up when he says “Hasta la vista, baby!”
This is because women like to think they’re helping men look good. But they’re not. They’re trying to change the guy.
They’re giving him a fashion makeover, creating an image that suits their preference, and if your guy is balky or whiny about it, well, that’s not good.
It’s bad enough that mom forced him to wear those lame “Thomas the Tank Engine” shirts years ago. Now you want him in designer pants. If you want Blake Shelton, then go after Blake Shelton, but also expect that chances are very good you’ll get your ass kicked by Gwen Stefani.
I know the anxiety of being forced to dress in a way that wasn’t me. I know the unwillingness of being taken on a clothes-shopping trip to the mall that I saw no need to take.
Clothing decisions tend to be made that just aren’t you. This means you often go to dinner with her looking either like the dictator of a Third World nation or the head of a Mexican drug cartel.
Some years back I liked this girl, liked her a lot, and so I begrudgingly let her decide that I needed to ditch my comfy Levis and strut around town in a pair of $65 disco jeans. Of course, she didn’t pay. I did. She just sat in a chair as I emerged from the dressing room and proclaimed, “Now that’s you!!”
During the two months that our relationship lasted, I estimate that I lost $16.46. That’s all the change I kept dropping but couldn’t bend over to pick up because the pants were so damn tight. True, they did make my crotch look absolutely explosive, but I’d rather have had the $16.46.
These also weren’t the pants to be wearing during a police stop for driving 41-mph in a 35-mph zone. The pants were so tight that I just couldn’t squeeze my hand into my right pocket for the license in my wallet, and the cop’s looking at me like I’m playing games, and my girlfriend’s looking at me with this expression like “Get the damn wallet out, will you?”, and I’m looking at her with this expression like “It’s not my fault, bitch, you’re the one who put me in these pants.”
“Don’t whack me,” I told the cop as I climbed out of the car without giving him the license. “I can’t reach my wallet sitting down. I have to stand.”
That’s when I had the epiphany. Life was so much less complicated in Levi’s jeans. And especially life without the fashion queen.
If you’re a guy who happens to be flipping through a women’s magazine while waiting in the doctor’s office to get poked during your annual prostate exam, one thing becomes apparent. Women demand a lot from guys. Look hot. Listen to me when I’m talking to you. Look good in your clothes. Make me laugh.
Sounds easy enough. If I look like Bradley Cooper and nod sympathetically like Dr. Phil and dress like David Beckham and crack jokes like Jim Gaffigan, I am going to be crazy in demand. It may not be who I want to be, but I am going to be crazy in demand.
I will certainly agree that some guys WANT to look like George Clooney, all debonair and in tailored jackets, or stylish khakis, or bold sweaters, all of that stuff. A lot of guys don’t. But they still know how to look presentable, not like hunter-gatherers. And the worst thing a woman can do is force her recalcitrant man into some reality-TV fashion makeover.
Heck, the way I see it, it’s only fair that we get to take them on shopping trips. Maybe get them to lose that Martha Stewart bedroom motif and dress more alluringly like Scarlett Johansson.
Come on, dear, grab your wallet. Time for a road trip to Victoria’s Secret.
And now it’s the guy’s turn to play fashion king, relaxing in a chair, scrolling through his iPhone as she goes in and out of the dressing room, emerging each time in fashionable lingerie during that elusive quest to find Scarlett.
“No, no . . . doesn’t work. Not enough cleavage.”
“Hmm . . . almost there, but it makes your butt look too big.”
“Turn around . . . now turn the other way. Know what? NOW THAT’S YOU!!”
Thirty minutes later you’re still wondering why she hasn’t come out of the dressing room. That’s when the sales clerk tells you she probably was the woman who just bolted out a back door.
Damn. You’d have thought you had herpes.