How should a gentleman fight with his woman?
Some of you are thinking a gentleman shouldn't fight with his woman at all. Others of you have accepted that, at least in your relationship, fights are inevitable and you're just wondering how to get to the other side of them without feeling like you took a vacation from being a gentleman. Either way, we can all agree that very few people are talking about this and it would be nice if we talked about it more. We know it's good to hold doors for women, give them our seats on public transportation, and lift heavy things for them, but what do we do when we disagree with them about a very tense and important subject? In my view, the standard gentlemanly platitude, "the man is always wrong" is just not going to do it here.
As before, Esquire magazine's May 2011 guide to marriage comes to the rescue, this time with a "philosophy of fighting." Two of the important takeaways for me:
1. Part of the reason we don't like fighting is that it shows us a side of ourselves we don't like. This side is always there, but it gets forced out of hiding in really ugly, deeply personal battles with someone we care about intensely.
2. When we fight, we're fighting for power, but if the fight is healthy, it should be about making sure our power is equal to, and not more than, our partner's.
Regarding the first point, I think it's salutary to realize, and ultimately accept, that we're capable of some pretty dirty tricks and fatal blows. The same "opposites attract" situation that brings this fact to light, however, can also serve as a vehicle for mitigating it. If you're a spendthrift and your lady's a saver or one of you has a rough personality and the other is gentle, you can, at least in theory and perhaps with professional counseling, help each other: The spender can help the saver lighten up while the saver encourages responsibility; the rough can toughen up the smooth while the gentle inspires a softer touch. But this process happens through getting annoyed, getting angry, hurting and getting hurt, and, most importantly, forgiving. You change because staying the same affects someone you love.
On the second point, I don't think any of us really wants to have more power than the person we deeply cherish; we just get afraid that if we don't protect our power, we'll end up with less. I remember not wanting to tell my girlfriend that something she did hurt me because if she ever wanted to hurt me, she could do it again. I was startled to discover that she couldn't care less about the quasi-Kantian, golden-rule bullshit I was giving her and was far more moved to love me better simply by hearing she'd hurt my feelings.
So here's what I think we have to do. We have to learn to give our partner power. When I admitted my girlfriend hurt me, this is what I was, in effect, doing. She could have taken this power -- for example, storing the information and using against me later, just as I had feared. But she gave it back: She listened, understood, apologized, and promised to work on the tendency that inspired the action. Of course, this only works if our partner is open, wants us to be happy, and knows how to respond to being given power. So we need to make a pact with our woman to give and give back power in both directions. It's scary, but it's the only way. Anything less is just dating for fun.
Is Your Wardrobe as Green as You Are?
George Carlin famously pointed out that we love hording stuff and buying bigger and bigger houses to put it in. This is only partly true, however. The other half of the story is that when we don't want or can't afford a bigger house, we streamline, throwing a bunch of stuff away to make room for more. Throwing stuff out is thus as much a part of consumerism as buying stuff (see here, for example, or here for a fun cartoon).
The problem with this is that it makes landfills bigger. Throwing things away is not really getting rid of them; it's making someone else deal with them instead. While recycling can be a good way of getting around this problem, the things we think we've "recycled" often end up with a very different fate from what we have in mind, being more or less trashed (see this other cartoon).
So what does all this have to do with the subjects we talk about here? Well, most of us who like clothes -- me, many readers of this blog -- buy a lot of them and we don't always, or even usually, wear out what we buy. Taking them to thrift shops can be good, but if the reason we don't want them is that they are ripped, impossibly stained, or newly out of style, no one else is going to want them either and the only thing we'll have accomplished is having the thrift shop throw them out instead of us. So it doesn't solve the problem.
Perhaps we could come up with a solution, though. My own suggestions toward this are the following:
1. We could keep our buying to a minimum, attempting to wear the clothes we have, and, when buying, buy wisely. This is a tough one. After all, shopping is fun, right? We're being trained to view buying things as a hobby, a social activity, a therapy, and much more, but we can resist this. In pursuing a more environmentally responsible wardrobe, we can seek out garments that are made well and won't fall apart (like most clothes are designed to do). This will probably mean spending a little more money upfront, but I think it's worth it. We could also stay away from clothes that only go with a few others others or are strictly in style and thus likely to be deemed passé by fashion spin doctors in a year or two.
2. We could vastly reduce the amount of clothes we throw away by being more reflective about the issue, beginning by asking why we are discarding a given item in the first place. Is it because it's stained? We could relegate it to work clothes (as I argue here). Is it because it has a rip in it? We could stitch it. (If I can do it, anyone can.) Or, if it's a really hard repair, why not have it tailored, which would also benefit local artisans? Or maybe we're getting rid of the piece because we've been unsuccessful in keeping our eighteen-year-old waistline. In that case, we could think of someone who would love to wear the garment. If no one fits the bill, a couple options remain. If it's a shirt or pair of trousers, we could cut it into rags to shine our shoes, work on our car, or clean our house. This does, of course, amount to throwing the garment away eventually, but it happens a use or two later and, in the latter case, replaces the paper towel waste that would be there anyway. Alternatively, if it's a blazer, tie, or hat, we could take it to a thrift shop.
These are just ideas to get us started. I'm open to others. The main point is simply that when we buy clothes, we should think of them as ours and not be so quick to throw them away, or so quick to buy them in the first place, thinking we can just discard them later. If we're going to be putting these things on our bodies, don't we want them to be so much what we're looking for that they're worth keeping, repairing, using, loving?
The problem with this is that it makes landfills bigger. Throwing things away is not really getting rid of them; it's making someone else deal with them instead. While recycling can be a good way of getting around this problem, the things we think we've "recycled" often end up with a very different fate from what we have in mind, being more or less trashed (see this other cartoon).
So what does all this have to do with the subjects we talk about here? Well, most of us who like clothes -- me, many readers of this blog -- buy a lot of them and we don't always, or even usually, wear out what we buy. Taking them to thrift shops can be good, but if the reason we don't want them is that they are ripped, impossibly stained, or newly out of style, no one else is going to want them either and the only thing we'll have accomplished is having the thrift shop throw them out instead of us. So it doesn't solve the problem.
Perhaps we could come up with a solution, though. My own suggestions toward this are the following:
1. We could keep our buying to a minimum, attempting to wear the clothes we have, and, when buying, buy wisely. This is a tough one. After all, shopping is fun, right? We're being trained to view buying things as a hobby, a social activity, a therapy, and much more, but we can resist this. In pursuing a more environmentally responsible wardrobe, we can seek out garments that are made well and won't fall apart (like most clothes are designed to do). This will probably mean spending a little more money upfront, but I think it's worth it. We could also stay away from clothes that only go with a few others others or are strictly in style and thus likely to be deemed passé by fashion spin doctors in a year or two.
2. We could vastly reduce the amount of clothes we throw away by being more reflective about the issue, beginning by asking why we are discarding a given item in the first place. Is it because it's stained? We could relegate it to work clothes (as I argue here). Is it because it has a rip in it? We could stitch it. (If I can do it, anyone can.) Or, if it's a really hard repair, why not have it tailored, which would also benefit local artisans? Or maybe we're getting rid of the piece because we've been unsuccessful in keeping our eighteen-year-old waistline. In that case, we could think of someone who would love to wear the garment. If no one fits the bill, a couple options remain. If it's a shirt or pair of trousers, we could cut it into rags to shine our shoes, work on our car, or clean our house. This does, of course, amount to throwing the garment away eventually, but it happens a use or two later and, in the latter case, replaces the paper towel waste that would be there anyway. Alternatively, if it's a blazer, tie, or hat, we could take it to a thrift shop.
These are just ideas to get us started. I'm open to others. The main point is simply that when we buy clothes, we should think of them as ours and not be so quick to throw them away, or so quick to buy them in the first place, thinking we can just discard them later. If we're going to be putting these things on our bodies, don't we want them to be so much what we're looking for that they're worth keeping, repairing, using, loving?
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270 Seconds to a Better Marriage
This month's Esquire (May 2011) has a cluster of features on marriage, being a good husband, and so on, many of which are interesting and helpful. Among these is an insert on page 152 offering a baby step approach to improving the marriage relationship from the guy's perspective. It takes less than five minutes and works like this:
In the morning, as soon as you (the guy) wake up, spend ninety seconds giving your wife the "greatest good morning possible": I love you truly, madly, deeply, etc. If she's asleep? No difference; "she'll hear you anyway."
Then, after work or anytime you've been away for at least two hours, give her your full, undivided attention for ninety seconds before you do anything else. "If she's happy, you go happy; if she's low, you go low. Look in her eyes long enough to discern her eye color. This says I value you; I need you."
Last, spend ninety seconds engaging her sometime during the final half hour before bed. In this moment, "do not talk about children, money, or work. Don't talk about the past at all. Look at her, stroke her hair, snuggle up to her, tell her you love her."
Voila.
Now, this, I think, should work. My reasons are two. First, no one is suggesting that we men do this 270 seconds per day and no more; rather, the idea is that it's very easy to go whole days without really paying attention to your wife and that this is bad for marriages. If we do the 270, though, we'll never be in danger of accidentally giving our marriages this kiss of death. Our wives will never feel that "you never talk/listen/pay attention to me." This alone is worth the price of the magazine (or a decade subscription, for that matter).
The second reason I think this approach should work is that the 270 seconds would tell us how much more of this direct attention is necessary on a given occasion. On some days, the "I care" communicated in the 270 might be sufficient to help our wives feel loved, rendering palatable the fact that we have to dash off subsequently and accomplish something. On the other days, the 270 would tell us what else we need to do to love our wives properly, presumably resulting in their appreciation and keeping the relationship rewarding for both parties.
Now, to me, the middle ninety seconds seems the toughest. Focusing on our women right before bed is a no-brainer, right? After all, it's half the reason we're in the bed to begin with. The 90 second "good morning" is not quite as easy, but still very doable, even pavlovian: It becomes the first and most important of the many things we do to start our day and, before long, we're experts.
But right after being apart for a substantial portion of the day? Who knows what state we might be in. For my own part, I usually want to talk about philosophy or whatever else has been rolling around in my head all afternoon. Not the usual woman's favorite topic, even if some of them do enjoy it from time to time. Or our day might have really sucked, making it difficult to refrain from blurting this out before we find out if their day was worse. But this, I submit, is the challenge. It simply must be done. Perhaps we men could make some sort of pact to encourage each other's diligence in this matter.
In the morning, as soon as you (the guy) wake up, spend ninety seconds giving your wife the "greatest good morning possible": I love you truly, madly, deeply, etc. If she's asleep? No difference; "she'll hear you anyway."
Then, after work or anytime you've been away for at least two hours, give her your full, undivided attention for ninety seconds before you do anything else. "If she's happy, you go happy; if she's low, you go low. Look in her eyes long enough to discern her eye color. This says I value you; I need you."
Last, spend ninety seconds engaging her sometime during the final half hour before bed. In this moment, "do not talk about children, money, or work. Don't talk about the past at all. Look at her, stroke her hair, snuggle up to her, tell her you love her."
Voila.
Now, this, I think, should work. My reasons are two. First, no one is suggesting that we men do this 270 seconds per day and no more; rather, the idea is that it's very easy to go whole days without really paying attention to your wife and that this is bad for marriages. If we do the 270, though, we'll never be in danger of accidentally giving our marriages this kiss of death. Our wives will never feel that "you never talk/listen/pay attention to me." This alone is worth the price of the magazine (or a decade subscription, for that matter).
The second reason I think this approach should work is that the 270 seconds would tell us how much more of this direct attention is necessary on a given occasion. On some days, the "I care" communicated in the 270 might be sufficient to help our wives feel loved, rendering palatable the fact that we have to dash off subsequently and accomplish something. On the other days, the 270 would tell us what else we need to do to love our wives properly, presumably resulting in their appreciation and keeping the relationship rewarding for both parties.
Now, to me, the middle ninety seconds seems the toughest. Focusing on our women right before bed is a no-brainer, right? After all, it's half the reason we're in the bed to begin with. The 90 second "good morning" is not quite as easy, but still very doable, even pavlovian: It becomes the first and most important of the many things we do to start our day and, before long, we're experts.
But right after being apart for a substantial portion of the day? Who knows what state we might be in. For my own part, I usually want to talk about philosophy or whatever else has been rolling around in my head all afternoon. Not the usual woman's favorite topic, even if some of them do enjoy it from time to time. Or our day might have really sucked, making it difficult to refrain from blurting this out before we find out if their day was worse. But this, I submit, is the challenge. It simply must be done. Perhaps we men could make some sort of pact to encourage each other's diligence in this matter.
Apparelexicon: A Glossary of Sartorial Terms
I haven't been able to find a decent online glossary that explains clothing terms in clear and enjoyable prose so I thought I'd create one. It's going to start small and then I'll add to it over time. Hopefully, I'll think of a good way to incorporate pictures at some point. Let me know if there are any terms you want moved up on the priority list.
Argyle -- The preppy, diamond pattern you see on socks and sweaters, sometimes worn by professors and ostentatious golfers. Named after the region in western Scotland, home of the specific tartan from which it spawned.
Bespoke -- See Made-to-measure.
Boutonnière -- French for buttonhole, but signifies a flower or miniature bouquet worn in the buttonhole of a suit lapel.
Check -- Any pattern where vertical and horizontal stripes are superimposed.
Corduroy -- A vertically or, more rarely, horizontally ribbed fabric, usually used for trousers and sports coats. Contrast with the diagonally ribbed twill.
Felt -- A fabric made not by spinning and weaving yarn but by kneading (or, rolling) wool, fur, or hair and pressing it while applying heat and/or moisture to make the fibers mat together into a smooth surface.
Made-to-measure -- A garment you have made specially to fit your unique dimensions, as distinct from a ready-to-wear garment you buy right off the rack (and possibly alter a bit).
Off-the-peg/rack -- See Ready-to-wear.
Pills -- The little beads that form on sweaters, sheets, flannel shirts, and the like after a few or many washes (called "pilling"). More common on synthetic fabrics (think satin sheets) or clothes made of cheap materials (think merino wool sweaters from Banana Republic), they can be removed with an ordinary shaving razor.
Ready-made [suit, shirt, etc.] -- See Ready-to-wear.
Ready-to-wear (aka. ready-made, stock, and off-the-peg) -- A garment you buy right off the rack (and possibly alter a bit), as opposed to a bespoke or made-to-measure garment you have made specially to fit your unique dimensions. The film Prêt-à-Porter, with Julia Roberts, derives its name from the French equivalent for this term.
Repp -- Technically a twill, or diagonally ribbed, silk, but in practice, a “repp tie,” for example, means one with two different-colored but equally-sized (a half inch or so) stripes, like those worn by college types.
Sartorial -- From the OED: "of or relating to tailoring, clothes, or style of dress." Comes from the Latin for tailor, "sartor," which in turn stems from "sarcire," meaning "to patch." Incidentally, the sartorius muscle in the inner thigh, used in crossing one thigh over the other, received its name from these cognates on the observation that such is the typical posture of tailors.
Seersucker -- That puckery, pastel and white striped cotton fabric you see men wearing with straw hats and the like during the summer.
Shantung -- Wild (i.e., raw) spun silk with slubs, or lumps and nubs, on the surface of the fabric, making it look like someone yanked out chunks of the weave with a seam ripper or other sharp object. Has a linen or rough cottony feel and derives its name from the province in China, where it originated in 1882.
Slub -- A lump, knob, or other irregularity in the surface of a [usually silk] fabric. Produced by knotting or twisting (called "slubbing") the yarn or by spinning fibers of various lengths together.
Tartan -- Any one of those many Scottish plaids you see on kilts and bagpipes, identifying the particular clan to which the Scot before you belongs.
Twill -- Any diagonlly ribbed fabric, as distinct from the vertically or, more rarely, horizontally ribbed corduroy.
Argyle -- The preppy, diamond pattern you see on socks and sweaters, sometimes worn by professors and ostentatious golfers. Named after the region in western Scotland, home of the specific tartan from which it spawned.
Bespoke -- See Made-to-measure.
Boutonnière -- French for buttonhole, but signifies a flower or miniature bouquet worn in the buttonhole of a suit lapel.
Check -- Any pattern where vertical and horizontal stripes are superimposed.
Corduroy -- A vertically or, more rarely, horizontally ribbed fabric, usually used for trousers and sports coats. Contrast with the diagonally ribbed twill.
Felt -- A fabric made not by spinning and weaving yarn but by kneading (or, rolling) wool, fur, or hair and pressing it while applying heat and/or moisture to make the fibers mat together into a smooth surface.
Made-to-measure -- A garment you have made specially to fit your unique dimensions, as distinct from a ready-to-wear garment you buy right off the rack (and possibly alter a bit).
Off-the-peg/rack -- See Ready-to-wear.
Pills -- The little beads that form on sweaters, sheets, flannel shirts, and the like after a few or many washes (called "pilling"). More common on synthetic fabrics (think satin sheets) or clothes made of cheap materials (think merino wool sweaters from Banana Republic), they can be removed with an ordinary shaving razor.
Ready-made [suit, shirt, etc.] -- See Ready-to-wear.
Ready-to-wear (aka. ready-made, stock, and off-the-peg) -- A garment you buy right off the rack (and possibly alter a bit), as opposed to a bespoke or made-to-measure garment you have made specially to fit your unique dimensions. The film Prêt-à-Porter, with Julia Roberts, derives its name from the French equivalent for this term.
Repp -- Technically a twill, or diagonally ribbed, silk, but in practice, a “repp tie,” for example, means one with two different-colored but equally-sized (a half inch or so) stripes, like those worn by college types.
Sartorial -- From the OED: "of or relating to tailoring, clothes, or style of dress." Comes from the Latin for tailor, "sartor," which in turn stems from "sarcire," meaning "to patch." Incidentally, the sartorius muscle in the inner thigh, used in crossing one thigh over the other, received its name from these cognates on the observation that such is the typical posture of tailors.
Seersucker -- That puckery, pastel and white striped cotton fabric you see men wearing with straw hats and the like during the summer.
Shantung -- Wild (i.e., raw) spun silk with slubs, or lumps and nubs, on the surface of the fabric, making it look like someone yanked out chunks of the weave with a seam ripper or other sharp object. Has a linen or rough cottony feel and derives its name from the province in China, where it originated in 1882.
Slub -- A lump, knob, or other irregularity in the surface of a [usually silk] fabric. Produced by knotting or twisting (called "slubbing") the yarn or by spinning fibers of various lengths together.
Tartan -- Any one of those many Scottish plaids you see on kilts and bagpipes, identifying the particular clan to which the Scot before you belongs.
Twill -- Any diagonlly ribbed fabric, as distinct from the vertically or, more rarely, horizontally ribbed corduroy.
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What Do Women Pay For?
Sometimes, my girlfriend and I go clothes shopping together. We actually happen to be in the rare and lucky position of mutually enjoying this process, regardless of who's doing the trying on.
I've noticed something interesting, even puzzling, on these trips, however: The cost of a garment often has less to do with its quality in women's apparel than it does in men's.
Now, this doesn't apply so much when it comes to lower-end stores. At the mall, Target, etc. -- even Macy's -- most of the clothes, regardless of gender, are not very high in quality. They look cool, but they're going to fall apart in a couple years, tops, which most people don't mind because everything will be out of style by then anyway. In a lot of these lower-end establishments, the women's clothes are even absurdly cheap: five, ten, twelve, twenty dollars. This, I think, is closer to what the clothes are actually worth than what men are paying in similar stores. Presumably, the rationale here is that women need lots of clothes so each garment should cost as little as possible. And, of course, you get what you pay for: The clothes in such venues are shabby for both genders, even though you pay a little less for this shabbiness in the women's case.
But in the higher-end places, the situation is more interesting. When I go to a men's boutique -- at least one where they actually sell suits and ties, etc. -- what I'm paying for is the quality and expertise. The material feels great and lasts forever (ten to twenty years at least) and a guy comes up to me who can tell me all my sizes without a tape measure and point me to everything in the store that looks like I was born to wear it. When I take my girlfriend to a women's boutique, however, the clothes feel the same as the ones at the mall even though the tags are in the triple digits (Ann Taylor and maybe Talbots constitute exceptions, though these aren't technically boutiques). The expertise isn't usually there either: There's normally a young, heavily accessorized salesgirl who sits in a chair, popping her bubblegum while we look through the racks.
What gives? What is the rationale for spending so much in these types of stores? If it's just a desire to look like a model, can't women satisfy this demand at the places charging twelve dollars a garment? Do many women just enjoy the experience of buying expensive things? Or am I missing something? Anyone should feel free to weigh in, but comments from women are especially welcome.
I've noticed something interesting, even puzzling, on these trips, however: The cost of a garment often has less to do with its quality in women's apparel than it does in men's.
Now, this doesn't apply so much when it comes to lower-end stores. At the mall, Target, etc. -- even Macy's -- most of the clothes, regardless of gender, are not very high in quality. They look cool, but they're going to fall apart in a couple years, tops, which most people don't mind because everything will be out of style by then anyway. In a lot of these lower-end establishments, the women's clothes are even absurdly cheap: five, ten, twelve, twenty dollars. This, I think, is closer to what the clothes are actually worth than what men are paying in similar stores. Presumably, the rationale here is that women need lots of clothes so each garment should cost as little as possible. And, of course, you get what you pay for: The clothes in such venues are shabby for both genders, even though you pay a little less for this shabbiness in the women's case.
But in the higher-end places, the situation is more interesting. When I go to a men's boutique -- at least one where they actually sell suits and ties, etc. -- what I'm paying for is the quality and expertise. The material feels great and lasts forever (ten to twenty years at least) and a guy comes up to me who can tell me all my sizes without a tape measure and point me to everything in the store that looks like I was born to wear it. When I take my girlfriend to a women's boutique, however, the clothes feel the same as the ones at the mall even though the tags are in the triple digits (Ann Taylor and maybe Talbots constitute exceptions, though these aren't technically boutiques). The expertise isn't usually there either: There's normally a young, heavily accessorized salesgirl who sits in a chair, popping her bubblegum while we look through the racks.
What gives? What is the rationale for spending so much in these types of stores? If it's just a desire to look like a model, can't women satisfy this demand at the places charging twelve dollars a garment? Do many women just enjoy the experience of buying expensive things? Or am I missing something? Anyone should feel free to weigh in, but comments from women are especially welcome.
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