I have long known that going out for an evening is a far easier affair for a man than it is for a woman. For men the process goes; Shirt, Tie, Trousers, Socks, Done.
This usually means that I take my place on the sofa with the remote control and wait for the females to work their way through the variety of tasks that seem to make them happy.
My wife often tries to get me to do various task during this waiting period but I usually manage to get out of such work by claiming that once I am ready I need to make sure that I don’t get too hot. To be fair I could wait until a little later to get ready and fulfil the list. Please don’t tell Mrs M.
The usual routine during this time is that my TV viewing is periodically interrupted by the girls and their mother showing me what they are intending to wear.
I try to appear interested but my energies are usually sapped by the fact that I know their outfits will no doubt changed several times before we leave the house.
I try to resist the temptation to ask why they keep asking for my opinion when it doesn’t seem to make any difference.
I have become increasingly aware that offering compliments can also be a dangerous pastime for a husband who is eager to please.
Last week I had collected my bride from the surgery where she works with the intention of making a flying visit past our home before we head off to some friends for the evening.
After a quick freshen up I said to my wife that she look beautiful and that there was no need to change. To which she replied that she had already done so and that before I decide to comment it might be best if I looked at what she was actually wearing.
She had a point because I hadn’t noticed what she was wearing when I collected her but in my defence she always looks good and I just wanted to affirm that on this occasion.
There have been other times when I have been all too eager to offer a positive comment in order to get Mrs M and her daughters out of the door. I don’t think I am the only male to adopt such tactics.
I tried to offer encouraging words a couple of nights ago as my wife put on her brand new high heel boots to attend a local housewarming party.
They certainly looked good but as my wife often trips up wearing flat shoes I was a little concerned for her safety.
“Are those boots made for walking”? I enquired resisting the urge to sing the famous song.
“They are mainly for standing in” came her reply “but they look good”.
It took us twenty minutes to walk a few hundred yards; She did look great but I thought it best not to say anything!
Dangerous Compliments
Full Length Mirror
My wife has just suggested that we visit our youngest daughter again this coming weekend. The reason: apparently she doesn’t have a full-length mirror in her new student accommodation and we need to take her ours.
If we do it will be the seventh time in as many weeks that we have made the trip to York. This, to my mind, seems a little excessive.
It is a little odd to me that such a fuss should be made over a piece of reflective glass but the girls in our family all share a certain attraction to such.
When they were younger I managed to buy a particularly large mirror for our hallway. It was both tall and wide and became something of a peacemaker in a family at war with each other over hairbrushes, clothes, and toys.
Before the acquisition of this new piece of wall furniture we would regularly see our daughters tussling with each other as to who could see their own reflection before they left for a full day at school.
I tended to think that it wouldn’t be quite the same in a house full of lads but other parents have told me that in today’s visual world boys are feeling a similar pressure to conform.
It was different in my day; as a boy I cant ever remember ever carrying a comb with me. Preferring to take my chances with the world looking like I had been dragged through a hedge backwards. A charge my mother would often level at me.
I can’t remember ever trying to climb through a hedge, let alone doing so backwards, but my parents seemed to think it was one of my chosen hobbies.
I was also accused of trying to find all the muddy puddles in the village and rolling in it; granted I did tend to return home from the park in a sorry state.
Perhaps this is why, to this day, I still aim for the large and deep puddles on the road when driving my car. Most men do it. There is something deeply satisfying about driving through water and risking your engine cutting out part way through.
I need to point out that, however tempting it might be, I resist doing so when there is a pedestrian nearby. Honest!
I think that much of our childhood experience is carried into adult life and absorbed as normal behaviour.
I still do not carry a comb with me and see little point in spending ages looking into a mirror before I leave the house.
Mr s M would say that this shows; she often takes an upward glance towards my hairline and holds back a ‘tut’ at how bad my hair looks.
If she feels in a kindly mood she will retrieve her brush from the mysterious compartments of her handbag and tidy me up. Even she is in a rush then she will ask simply ask whether I have ‘looked in the mirror this morning’.
After this weekend it would mean a trip to York to do so.
Competitive Girls
I had the pleasure of being on Radio 4’s Womans Hour last week in order to talk about my favourite complaint; too many women in a house with only one bathroom.
The subject turned towards the competitiveness difference between male and female offspring.
Another guest, who had a house full of boys, told of how they turn even the simplest of tasks into a measure of who is the best.
I can’t say that the Molineaux females have ever been that competitive; preferring to gang together to discuss nails, makeup, clothes, and TV.
There are, however, odd occasions where they are quite happy to move in to fight mode. The one that springs to mind is when we organised family Easter Egg hunts for them when they were children.
As parents we tried to set the rules of the game such that each of the four girls would end up with an equal amount of chocolate.
Our intentions were rarely realised as the girls dashed around the house fighting their way towards their Easter reward.
Our girls are now grown up, with the youngest approaching nineteen, so such events are part of our collective folklore. Last year however we managed to perform a minor miracle and get all the girls, plus husbands, together for the Easter break.
The conversation soon turned to recollections of the fun they had all had during their earlier years, when my Mrs Molineaux’s eldest suggested they organised one now.
What you need to understand is that when she suggested that ‘they’ organised it what she actually meant was that I did it. The collective shout of ‘Daaaaaaaad!’ drew me from the kitchen to hear about their plans.
I dashed to the supermarket to see if there were any Easter eggs left at such short notice and managed to collect together enough items to make it a true competition.
As in earlier years the family were sent out for thirty minutes so that I could run around the house like a mad man with handfuls of melting chocolate.
When they returned I explained the rules not least so that our new son-in-laws could join in too. They looked slightly bemused and for a moment I worried about their safety but I figured they were old enough to deal with what ever trauma might come their way through this new experience.
I signalled the start of the race and too our amazement, and parental delight, the girls reverted to young children again and assumed their earlier roles. Daughter number one screamed her way from room to room. Daughter number two failed to see even the most obvious of hidden treasure. Offspring number three quietly collected a hoard of quality chocolate, and Mrs Molineaux’s youngest happily took chocolate from her sister’s collections.
It was like going back in time except that is for the presence of two rather bemused lads who didn’t quite know what had hit them.
Are males more competitive than females; probably yes but not when it comes to Easter egg hunts.
