For the man who has everything ...

... except the real blond on the back of the bike, the build-her-yourself version:

Kent Terrace, Wellington

Shopping on Mars and Venus

A nice young couple among the shelves of photo frames in one of Briscoes' recurring sales.

Her: (swooping) There are nice pink and blue ones here. Your thoughts?
Him: Nice.
Her: Which one - pink or blue?
Him: (after the slightest hesitation) Blue. She knows I like blue ...
Her: Have you seen the pink? The pink is nice.
Him: Either/or. Pink or blue.  

Actually, I hate that Mars and Venus stuff (anatomy is not destiny; I can read a map much better than The X ever could and I hate asking directions), but I thought this brief exchange nicely illustrated two shopping styles and what happens when they meet head on in a relationship.
She inspected everything and, having narrowed down the options, presented him with them. She wasn't against the blue, but wanted to be sure he'd properly assessed its appeal relative to the pink, and come to a considered decision. Her interrogation made him think she wanted the pink, so he immediately gave in.
I didn't hang around to see which one they finally bought. They might well have ended up with the one nobody wanted. I moved on the towel aisles, glad to have no one to consider but myself.

Bulge-enhancing male underwear arrives

You heard it here first ... well, second, actually. This morning's Dom Post reports that that retail shrine to British commonsense, Marks and Spencer, is about to thrust onto the market something called a "frontal enhancement garment". For those whose first language isn't M&S, this translates as knickers that make your package look bigger. Thirty-eight per cent bigger, according to reports, although god knows how they arrived at this degree of precision. 

I couldn't find this exciting item on their website - the closest I got was a bunch of dudes in vests http://www.marksandspencer.com/Bodymax-Underwear-Underwear-Mens/b/332652031?ie=UTF8&pf_rd_r=17EGAD9TBG995YHNEP6G&pf_rd_m=A2BO0OYVBKIQJM&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_i=43593030&pf_rd_p=475115433&pf_rd_s=left-nav-2 Bodymax vests. Which, claim M&S, "shape" your body. It seems likely the new undies will emerge under this label. 

They'll sell for around NZ$21. And you'll also be able buy bum-lift knickers. I can imagine some men being eager for both enhancements, but the only way to get them will be to wear two pairs of undies at once. Why didn't M&S design them as one?

Women routinely buy and wear wired, push-up, padded bras. Not to mention those stretchy cast-iron garments that "control" you from from mid-thigh to chest. Men just want the same, it seems. Or M&S hopes they do. Which is the way of our glorious capitalist system - create the thing and desire for it will follow.

It once more raises the question of who we dress for. Men dressing for other men will possibly flock to M&S for both products. Men dressing for women might too. They'd be misguided, though, in any belief that this will make the difference between pulling and not. When, lady readers, was the last time you decided it was all on with someone by sizing up their crutch? Their arse, now ... that's another story. 

But then, so the argument usually runs, women buy underwear to make themselves feel good, not primarily to attract a mate. Perhaps it will prove the same for men. A bigger-looking bulge equals more confidence equals more success.  Why do I feel like sighing?

Man of the week

The one who spontaneously mentioned the Sunday Star Times's "Shoe of the Week" feature. I'd always assumed this fell beneath the radar of a lot of women and all men. Am delighted to be proved wrong.

Someone should put together an online collection. In the meantime, here's a recent SOTW.

And a note for anyone who thinks I must want my head read for imagining such items are wearable - I don't, and especially not by me. They are artefacts, enjoyable for their own aesthetic sake. They don't pretend to have anything to do with the practicalities of Wellington footpaths, driving rain and running for buses. I don't want to own them.  Quite often I don't even like them. But I do need to look at them. Sometimes for quite a long time.

Which reminds me, I must some time tell you the story of M and the most nearly unwearable shoes I have ever bought.

Crab Man, Tango Man, Sauna Man

I encountered all three of these in the last week or so in three separate habitats, and, as a consequence, am feeling rather disenchanted with Homo Supposedly Sapiens.

Crab Man and his female consort occupied the fare next to mine and E's on the beach in Vanuatu. So he was the one who responded to our cries for help when we discovered a big black crab clomping across our floor, bound for God-knows where. Crab Man approached the creature rather less confidently than I'd expected and dithered a while with sheets of newspaper, clearly reluctant to pick the thing up in his bare hands.

Meanwhile, we hovered - girlishly - on the little veranda. He exited the fare with the crab more or less contained in a clumsy newspaper parcel. As he came by, he thrust the parcel at my face, roaring with laughter when I reeled back. He released the crab into the wild, we were obliged to thank him, and off he went in triumph.

Tango Man was my first partner at Saturday night's ball. He said he'd been dancing four years so I warned him I was much newer, that I hadn't danced for 10 days and, as this was my first of the evening, I would be a little rusty. I always am - it takes a while for my fear of doing the wrong thing to melt away and for me to relax into it. Thirty seconds after we began, he abruptly stepped back and threw up his arms. "Stop leading me," he ordered. I apologised, feeling, after this little display on a crowded dancefloor, like a leper. We began again. And again he stepped back and threw up his arms. By now I was rigid, unaware of the music or him; aware only of my fear of getting it wrong. Somehow I stumbled through to the end of the song. We paused; a milonga started up.

"You're not ready for that," he announced gracelessly and turned on his heel.

I had two options at that point: retire to the Ladies and weep or find a kinder partner and try to recover a little self-esteem and confidence. I opted for the latter. T wheeled me round with patience and good humour, as he always does, and put the blame for the previous fiasco squarely on Tango Man. "A good strong leader should have coped," he said.

E and I encountered Sauna Man at the pool yesterday. One half of of the facility was clearly marked out of order, so she and I, a young woman and a sweatily overweight gasping young man were installed in the adjoining section, the two being separated by a lattice partition. Young Sweaty Man had already treated his female audience to a mini-lecture on various sauna-related topics, but since no response was expected, he got none. We just lay on our towels, heating up.

A skinny middle-aged man suddenly plunged through the door of the adjoining room and - contrary to clear signage, towel-less - threw himself down on one of the benches. Within a minute a young attendant was at the door to tell him he wasn't meant to be in there: it was a health and safety issue. Young Sweaty Man had already informed us it was a minor matter to do with the door and had bemoaned how long it was taking the council to fix it.

Sauna Man said he only wanted one sweat and then he'd come out. Attendant explained again that that side was closed, and asked him very nicely to come outside so they could talk. He argued. Finally, with a little show of exasperation, he did as asked. A minute later he was in our side, clambering over E without apology and planting himself - still towel-less - on the top bench.

"It would be a woman", he announced. "They're bloody fearless."

"You're not that scary, don't flatter yourself."

This was me. Unwise, I know, but I was riled by his air of entitlement and his smart-ass tone. I aimed for jocular but may have fallen a bit short.

"Hah, they can't help themselves," he added. Not to me, presumably, unless he failed to recognise my gender.
Sure enough, his real audience - Young Sweaty Man - responded with a guffaw.

Thus encouraged, Sauna Man came out with, "She only got away with it because she was good-looking."

And with an even heartier guffaw, the other agreed.

I flung myself from the bench with a cry of "Oh, for fuck's sake', grabbed my towel and left. E followed seconds later.

What prompted the bad behaviour in each case was a moment of perceived vulnerability that threatened the protagonist's notion of their own manliness.

Crab Man wasn't a whole lot keener on tackling our intruder than we were, so shoving it in my face allowed him to feel in control, invulerable, again.

Tango Man wasn't as good a dancer as he liked to believe so needed to treat me badly rather than risk losing face.

And Sauna Man, having been publicly bested by a woman, recovered face in the only way he knew how - by bonding fast with the other man present against all women. The backslapping was infuriating, and rendered the other three occupants of that confined space invisible and inconsequential.

Anyone got a better explanation?

What do men want? And do we care?

Will this blog ever escape the topic of footwear? Not at this rate, it won't, no. Because I've now sustained a tango-related injury. Or rather, a tango and high-heel related injury. According to the physio, a ligament in my left foot is strained. She examined it lovingly, treated it to ultrasound and then it bound up in a way that made it feel much better. Although it does still ache and twinge, and will apparently take some time to heal because there's no blood flow to cartilage. She graciously accepted the pointlessness of forbidding me to dance, but suggested I always ice the foot afterwards. This inevitably rams home all that, until recently, I held as revealed truth - that high heels are the modern equivalent of foot-binding.

And yet ... That's the thing about getting older (one of the things, anyway) - there's always an "and yet".

In her comment on a previous blog, Jacquie made two points: 1. that men would rather see a woman tottering in heels than striding in flats, and 2. that women don't necessarily wear them for men anyway - she doesn't and neither do high-heel wearing lesbians. Rather, they are a celebration of femininity, and she loves wearing them simply for their own sake.

The Plain Jane and No Nonsense side of me flinches at that loaded word "femininity", and yet there's truth in what Jacquie says.

I'm happy to report, though, that she's wrong on count one. I've identified at least one exception to her rule - N, my local cafe's excellent barrista and all-round excellent young man. With only the slightest provocation, he launched into a diatribe on the subject of high heels. He can't understand why women (and more particularly his girlfriend) wear something they can't walk in, and he would much rather they/she wore sensible flats so they didn't have to be supported across busy roads and uneven terrain.

"Be all right if they had a button you could push for walk mode," he said, and performed an impromptu click, drop and go mime.

And yet ...

Searching online for the ultimate in safe and comfortable tango shoes, I went to the source - Argentina. But the women there must be made differently because all I could find were variations on this one.


Out of the question, even for you, Jacquie, surely.