Let's take an example, again stolen from a smarter person than me. Women will nod all during a conversation, meaning that they are listening ("We are connecting."). Men will only nod when they agree ("I concede your status as a person who knows something worth knowing."). Now let's review the next step where the male assumes the woman listener is the same as him. "But I thought we agreed to this, already! You nodded in the meeting when I said this was a good idea."
Her reply: "All my nod meant was that I heard your stupid idea."
On the other side, the woman complains, "You aren't listening to anything I am saying!"
His reply: "You said you were going to tear out the foyer, re-route the entry and re-design in a Tuscan style." "Then why didn't you even acknowledge any of that?"
"Because it is all a stupid idea!"
You can see why it is important that we appreciate that conversational need of whoever we are talking to is important. Fortunately, most women learn to 'speak male,' to some extent or another. (And men, they usually pity us as they do so. Most women appreciate that they are men's superior in so many ways. But we somehow must seem to be worth the extra effort it takes for them to put up with us, so we should be grateful, I suppose.) But Catherine was one of those few people who seemed to appreciate both the men's and women's worlds simultaneously. Chalk that up as another reason that I was so infatuated with her. Fortunately, I was an old hand at seeming disinterested in women as I moved through my days. So I was able to be as non-threatening as I intended with her, and eventually, after several projects she started to treat me like one of the girls.
I don't mean to insinuate that I was a limp wrist, just waiting for the end of the day to slip into a sexy pair of panties and a pretty frock. But once she truly felt that I was not "Playing for the team," she was willing to treat me like a woman, with all the honors associated with that title, which included a little bit more insight to the woman's thought process about clothes, baby poop, sexuality and cleaning. She was astute enough to appreciate the fact that baby poop was a topic wasted on me, but most women feel that men are too sensitive about gross out topics such as lime green projectile vomiting and its affect on a multi-colored blouse, and the cleaning difficulties involved with it. First will be a discussion on why the vomit was the color it was (Involving lima beans, another topic I normally avoid), and eventually will invite some interactive discussion on various soaking and cleaning techniques. When a woman is willing to share on such a plane, it means they have bought into the fact that they no longer consider you a sexual adversary.
It is perhaps a good time to discuss my hetero-sexual strategy. I can't have any woman who knows of me as an architect to believe that I am straight. I don't believe that any relationship is forever, so if the inevitable happens and we break up, the woman would then have a blackmail lever over me. So I keep an absolute policy of keeping women, mentally, at arm's length in that world. I date women through a dating service and they think, in fact they know, that I am a rich playboy paying for the association. They have no illusions that I am a long term commitment and a lot of pressure is off both of us. It works out nicely for me, but it does take some work to keep the two sides of me apart. But I do love a challenge.
And perhaps the term 'At arm's length' is an unfortunate choice of words. For interestingly enough, once you have the baby poop seal of approval, you are allowed a lot more latitude in touching women. It is not a caress, but a touch of human contact (Connection, not status). I am free to pull a loose thread, brush a wrinkle or dust mote off the backside of a skirt (One of my favorites), or tug and smooth a blouse for the optimum fit. Laughs include leaning in and touching of hands or legs, all without the concern of where it might lead.
My absolute favorite result is when the women will pull me into a dressing room to have me opine on their clothing choices. I love nothing more than watching a woman wiggle into a skirt, her sexy backside swaying as she fits herself into the new garment. Or perhaps when she slides her blouse off one shoulder and I can watch her breasts swell with the sigh of poor choices or fits, or with pride of a victorious discovery. Shopping for women is like hunting is for men, only more complex. The hunt ends with the first dropped prey. The shopping doesn't end until the store refuses to take back or exchange. The hunter cannot take back the arrow, but the shopper can take back the shoes.
I have become an expert at hiding my lust in the dressing room. But it takes work, both in the hiding or avoiding the potential erection and in the research that gets me into the dressing room. I have magazine subscriptions to women's fashion and I keep up with trends and meanings of trends. However, as far as sacrifices go, mine are pretty minor.
Our job requires us to travel to various sites, sometimes if it is a greenfield, we go to the site where the office will eventually be built to get a feel for the sun, neighborhood ambiance and customer vision, then to the partial build we go to get an understanding of how the plan is suffering from the ravages of building codes, inspections, budgets and time constraints. Toward the end of the project, we return to the site to find the minor tweaks due to material shortages, builder changes and the forever changing local building codes and inspectors, as well as the 'while you are at it, we had another idea' adjustments the customer will come up with. If it is a remodel, the first step is mostly conceptual, and the later steps mainly revelational. Nothing seems to make Catherine angrier in these discoveries than finding some slipshod base work. "Don't they know how much extra work they are causing everyone else?" She would exclaim. I was always amused at her various rants as she always seemed to do them with a grace and humor. She kept her standards high at the same time she kept a better than depressing monologue for anyone working on our projects. They would smile, but not let her catch them using shortcuts.
It was this easy confidence she possessed that made her fun to be around. On many occasions, due to the need of our clients to be back to their work sooner than we anticipated, or often due to her, or my, quick insight to the client desires, we would find ourselves with extra time to kill before we needed to be back to the airport. Once you have been to airports as often as we have been, you have no desire to go early. It is never comfortable, and seldom any more interesting than the average mall.
So, one time we found ourselves taking the slightly less onerous destination of a mall, rather than going early to the airport and as we ate a hamburger at the food court, she regaled me with her opinions of the dressing decisions of people passing by.
"What is that? Do you think they belong to a religion where they are not allowed to look in a mirror? Perhaps they are vampires. Mike, do you suppose the clothes or just their image doesn't show up in the mirror?"
I replied, "You know, every movie where their image doesn't show in the mirror, neither do their clothes."
"Well, it is too bad that we have to look at those outfits, but then again, it is better than the alternative. Looking at them in those hideous garments is better than seeing them naked, I suspect." She said with a shiver.
"And them?" I said pointing to a trio of people exiting a store across from the food court. All three were somewhat dumpy and had no idea on how to dress around their figure faults. One, an overweight teenager had a long light blue camouflage shirtdress over black lace leggings, with black ankle boots, and her homage to fashion was a French foreign legion looking cap that exactly matched the dress. Her brown hair was straight and cut three inches below the cap. With her was a younger girl who found red, orange and green clothing items simultaneously acceptable. The third person was the mother with a black spaghetti strap tee shirt that was losing a battle in containment efforts on her massive cleavage. Matched with blue denim jeans that fit her, maybe twenty pounds earlier, all three of them were glancing at their phones as they hesitated at the door.
"Perhaps a team of synchronized blind texters? Do you know what is sad? I have been watching them check out. That woman just bought the outfits the kids have on. I watched the clerk undo
the magnet ‘thingees’ on their clothes. Think of how terrifying the clothes in the bag must be! And they were proud of this! That woman took a photo of the clerk checking them out."
Catherine glowered at the trio. "That just about qualifies as child abuse. Mike, go over there and ask them if they just escaped from an Amish farm. Do you think they are color blind? Does the store bear any responsibility for letting them walk around in public? What if someone asks them where they bought those clothes? Should someone tell corporate that they are taking a public relationship risk? I need to buy something green. Do you want to help?"
I was temporarily taken aback by this last bit. "Why, did you see a lime walking around?" I asked swiveling my head around to see what brought about this segue.
"No,” she said waving her hand dismissing the trio. Catherine often rapidly moved from one topic to another with little to explain why. It was most frustrating when topic two was a continuation of a discussion that was left hanging hours earlier. Sometimes her mind was two or three statements down the road before I even connected with the proper context. "Green is the new color this year and I don't have anything like that. Would you like to advise me? I am not sure if I can pull off the look. I hate to spend money without a second pair of eyes on it. Would you mind? Do we have time?"
"Sure we have time." I said and we were off to some women's department. Banished from her mind were the bad dressers. She was never malicious in her various tirades. She was often more baffled then bothered. "Don't they have friends to advise them?" or “When they were looking at a rack of clothes, what makes them pull that out? What makes the manufacturer choose that fabric? Oh look green and yellow seersucker; let's make some Bermuda shorts out of them. Perhaps some blind golfer will purchase them."
But all that was behind her now as she was on a new mission, focused on finding something green. And there were a lot to choose from. But she quickly computed her way through the racks of clothes. Not the right size here, a poor sleeve choice here, poor quality over there. After a fashion she was marching towards the dressing room with me in tow. At the entrance she looked around for a chair for me to sit in, where I imagined I'd be guarding her purse. A clerk saw her looking around and said, "It's alright, he can go in the dressing room with you. We ought to have chairs out here and ESPN on a television. Believe me; we'd sell a lot more clothes."
The next thing stunned me. "Okay, come on Mike," she shrugged. So I found myself in a dressing room with her much sooner that I had expected would be possible. I suppose I should have not have been. She was always brutally practical. Since she was trying only blouses and shirts, she would be showing me no more skin than one could see at the swimming pool. Besides, she knew I was gay, almost one of the gals. I sat on a bench and she tried on blouse after blouse. Her bra was a white lacey number and her breasts, from what I could see were soft and symmetrical. I was careful to keep my eyes on the clothes and my Johnson from getting too excited. I particularly liked the too small Kelly green number that stretched tight across her bust. I was concerned about rising to get her a larger size as Mr. Johnson was not being a gentleman and threatened to blow my cover, but I was saved by the clerk who offered to fetch some alternatives. I was ever so grateful.
At one point, Catherine unzipped her skirt and slid the shirttails inside it. I wanted it to be my hands running down her flank and touching her skimpy lace panties. I love it when a woman matches her underwear, even if it is just for herself. But all good things come to an end and we left with a single blouse out of the 10 or so she tried on. It was not the last time I got to be in the room with her, and not the most erotic, but it is forever in my memory the image of her pursing her lips (Why do they do that?) as she swung herself back and forth to view the fit. And forever, too, is that glimpse of her hip, that sexy bone in front that I just love to caress. And how sad too, that I would be relegated to watch her dress for her Steven, to help her dress for her Steven. I hoped and I suspected that he appreciated her as much as I did.
But it is fortunate for me, I suppose, that she is not mine. I would be so jealous of all the other men who looked at her. I could not share. I, also, would not want to ever be so bored with her that I didn't care if other men lusted after her. I know you must think me strange to feel this way. Even I feel a bit of a thief in this regard. I would rather steal a tiny piece of a beautiful woman's life than own a majority of it, if it meant that other men would get the least bit of the minority stake. I have a theory on this. I have a theory on everything. I fear I am really a philosopher in the Greek tradition. They sat on their porches, called ‘stoas’, and believed that to be a true scientist, they had to be objective. They could not experience life's events lest they be skewed in their appraisals. So they sat on the porch and viewed and opined from afar. Since the porch is called a ‘stoa’, they were called Stoics. So I am a Stoic. It may be sad to you, but it is my choice. If you want to run with the big thinkers, stay on the porch.
Chapter 5: Steven-2
It was perhaps a year later that Steven did something he both regretted, at the time, and was grateful that he got it out of his mind. But the regret was much worse than the relief and that put him into a bout of depression that was uncharacteristic for him.
He could be accurately described as moody, and often was tabbed that way. But his down mood swings were invariably linked to problems he had not yet solved. The operative definition is 'not YET solved." Because he was, at the heart of him, incredibly creative and resourceful in his solution sets. Catherine was always impressed that he, like her father, always seemed to find a way to do or fix anything. And moreover, his solutions were prettier than her father's, who found Masonite board and three quarter inch CD grade plywood lovely enough in their functionality that no paint or stain was necessary. In this regard, Catherine felt she had, at least, a slight improvement over her father, which is actually saying something very nice.
Once Steven had a path for his solutions, his mood immediately turned better, even cheerful. In this sense, he and Catherine were incredibly different. While Catherine worried about all sorts of things like should she buy those shoes, would she be able to retire comfortably, is that cough or ache a sign of cancer? (Something that was not extant in her family), Steven would ask; "I have a pair of shoes, why would I want another? We are saving at a rate that should make us comfortable, but since we really don't know what the economy will do, we can't really take a smarter path, so why don't we just stay with this savings rate? My mom died of cancer and so did my brother, so I know I am at risk. So I don't smoke and I eat less processed foods and I eliminate as many other risk factors as I can. So why worry about it? Stress is a risk factor, so I shouldn't worry and make myself riskier, should I?"
Catherine worried randomly and confused Steven as she did so. It bothered him that she worried about things well outside her control. It seemed inefficient to worry whether a character on a television show would die in the upcoming weeks. Steven would worry in advance and have a plan for any occasion. In fact, he considered it a gift that he was so unlucky. It forced him to think, 'What could go wrong? And what could I do about it?' It always amazed Catherine that her worrywart husband was at his best when bad things happened. He would worry about having enough money to buy new tires for the car, but didn't blink an eye when the tire went flat. It eventually dawned on her that the proactive worry paid off in efficiencies during a crisis.
In another sense they were similar. When they could see the future, they both set about doing something about it. Once she saw and felt a design, she relaxed and moved on to the next project. He would worry about how to make that window fit in the wall, then come up with an installation technique that he could do at the least cost and effort. And she knew he could do that, so she didn't worry. And they both worried about the money. Their dreams, her dreams, rapidly outgrew their budget and as a result she was forced to wait and he felt disappointed that she could not see her visions quickly. He knew, in his heart, that she
could always out-design any flow of money, but he wanted to provide her with all possible joy. But that was not his source of anxiety as he knew he had done all within his power to move things along. He had a very nice paying job, and he did almost every physical act on their designs that could be done. This made pretty much every project cost half, or less than what it would cost if they had hired a contractor.
His anxiety was of a sexual nature. He had waited all these years for the kids to move out and had expected the focus of their lives would turn back to each other; once the worries of curfews and teenage activities were beyond her worry scope. But Catherine had routines for her daily activities. This allowed her to perform boring tasks without thinking about it. She could design in her head as she prepared breakfast, washed clothes or changed the bed sheets. If it was not a daily routine, it would force itself into her consciousness and she would find herself questioning the task and why she had to do it. She would feel both a responsibility to do such tasks and a resentment to be having to do it. So washing clothes impinged upon her consciousness and bothered her, but like many of these tasks, her ego was such that she believed no one, not even her well intentioned and clever husband could do them to her satisfaction. It was wise that she chose such a mindset on things like the wash because he was horrible at things like that. He didn't know much about fabrics and their optimum wash temperature. He had no memory for where the five different soaps, three bleaches, two fabric softeners and eighteen or nineteen different specialty spot cleaners were, leave alone when they should come into play. But he could vacuum like a champ, but she had it in her mind, from her mother of all people who had never worked outside the home, that certain jobs were 'women's work' and should not be foisted upon the husband.
Three Sides of the Coin (Catherine I) Page 5
