I am one of those women who, when she’s got a guy, treats him like a god. It’s in my Italian DNA, however, I do know how some men, after a time, just expect it as if we work for them, for room and board, and that occasional trip to Miami.
I ran into a photographer, that way back when, had a big crush on, one that stayed dormant because he was married. Charlie, I’ll call him, was so handsome, with a shock of dark hair laced with gray, built like an Olympic swimmer, his biceps peeking from a well fitted Fruit of the Loom T, displaying strength from carrying all those cameras. This was when Nikons and Hasselblads ruled.
When I recently saw him, wow, did he change, appearing rumpled, with thinning hair and wrinkled, like he slept in his clothes. Those biceps were deflated like popped balloons, his jeans drooping while a beer belly made one too many cameos. It was as if I saw him through a funhouse mirror.
And guess what? He’s divorced, so no one is looking after him anymore. His ex took excellent care of him, ironing his clothes, feeding him the right foods. I felt sorry for him since he really didn’t know what hit him, reminding me of my dad when my mom left him. He’d meet me for dinner in a striped shirt and checked golf pants looking like a test pattern, lost, since my mother always laid out his clothes.
And here’s the point.
Men need to be aware of women who show up for them. Long term relationships seem to fare the worst, as if appreciation was locked in the trunk of their car. It may sound as if we treat them like sons which, I’ll admit, is anything but alluring, so while you’re rubbing the ring out of that collar, it’s best to do it in a string bikini. In other words, be sexy while scrambling those eggs.
My friend Anna said, “Bikini? I’m tired at the end of the day. Who can be sexy after 4 loads of laundry?”
You can Madam Clorox, or accept the fact he’ll always view you as just good help.
In the photographer’s case, he said, his wife got up one day and said, “I’ve had enough,” and the next thing he knew he was living out of cartons in a one-bedroom apartment in Chinatown.
So girls, get out that bikini, and guys, say thanks once in a while or you too might be living out of a cardboard box with chopsticks to talk to.