How do you think Angelina would react if Brad put his thongs on to go out to dinner?
I thought that when we moved to the city he might upgrade his wardrobe accordingly, save the beachwear FOR THE BEACH and make a trip to David Jones to update. I don’t expect him to trounce around in designer slacks all the time, I’d just appreciate a bit of colour co-ordination occasionally.
I know all the baloney about ‘what’s on the inside’ being important and I agree wholeheartedly with the principle, but occasionally I’d like my fella to look hot.
However, his response is that he outrightly refuses to kowtow to any suggestion that he ‘make a fucking effort’ with his clothing, and accuses me of being shallow.
I don’t think that I’m being unreasonable, but I do believe that he may have some innate fear of being controlled or disempowered by me (or any of the other verbs he uses that equate to the word ‘henpecked’). He doesn’t seem to understand is that I would hate to be married to a ‘yes’ man. Nevertheless, there are a few rules that are sacrosanct to our relationship and he broke one of the cardinal ones on Friday night when he wore thongs to a bar.
THONGS TO A BAR!
It’s not that I don’t appreciate that we now live in Australia where thongs are almost as iconic an emblem of the country as the kangaroo or emu, and I am glad that he is that keen to naturalise; yet I defy anyone to describe thongs as stylish.
They are beach apparel, designed to wade through sand easily, dry quickly when wet and to prevent the undersides of your feet from barbequing in hot sand. They say ‘I can’t be bothered’ rather than ‘I’m hot!’ and if a man can’t be bothered in his choice of footwear, what does it say about his lovemaking techniques? They are about as attractive as nylon rapper running suits and high-waisted trousers and do nothing to accentuate the allure of a man in a bar.
If I was some 40-something woman already comfortably resigned to wearing my Sportscraft checked shirt and slacks, they might be acceptable. Unfortunately for the old man, I’m not.
Which is why I felt very aggrieved on Friday night when after I threatened to leave him for not making enough of an effort , on a whim we decided to go out for a quick drink. Although it was a spontaneous decision, I, however, still bothered to put on some lippy, a few sequins and heels.
As we were walking to the bar, I looked down at his feet, and to my horror noticed the offending Havaiana thongs.
‘Hun, you really need to buy some casual shoes,’ I said, trying to quell the irritation from my voice, ‘because it’s just not acceptable to go out at night in flip flops.’
‘Who says?’ he snapped back, hackles rising. ‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘You look like crap, like you’ve just come off the beach’, I responded haughtily, ‘they don’t even match!’
‘Yes, they do,’ he retaliated, checking his feet to see if he had on a matching pair.
I give up. Why can’t he make an effort for me for the very same reason that I make an effort for him? There’s nothing sinister about my request, no hidden agenda, I just want him to look stylish and attractive occasionally. But it seems that the more I nag him about his lack of style or the necessity to dress up, occasionally, the more he retaliates like some toddler by donning his oldest tee shirts, dirtiest jeans and fugliest footwear.
I can see that it has become a bit of a game for him. On Saturday evening I jokingly commented about how glad I was that he was wearing his fugly poo-coloured tee-shirt, rather than wearing it on Sunday for our Christmas party. In hindsight, the poo-shirt would have been a better fit than the shrunken crop top that he chose to wear in front of our friends, and if it hadn’t been for the negotiating skills of NC who has a way of appealing to her father that I lost somewhere along the marital timeline, I may have left him and our guests to it.
I don’t need him to dress in Ralph Lauren, but I would just like him to look smart occasionally, rather than like the guy who dressed during a power outage in the local Vinnies.
Am I being unreasonable? I bet Brad Pitt doesn’t wear thongs to dinner.