“Did you meet anyone in Italy?” she asks. She means well. Some of the gal friends believe all of us are better off paired. It bothers this particular friend that I remain nonplussed at the idea.
“No.” I smile. “They were friendly. They were handsome. They’re different.”
“Flirty?” she’s hoping.
The first time there I was young, unlined, and with perfect brows. Now, I’m not stopping anyone in the street. It goes with the passage of time. This time I was truly there for the fashion. And the food. And the Grand Bear.
“There was something that stuck out, though, about Italian men versus American men.”
“Really?” She’s ready for something juicy.
“They tuck in their shirts. All of them. And their pants and shirts are pressed.”
“Only you,” she tsks.
“It’s striking. And it’s hot,” say I.
Something about a man who appears to have put some thought into his appearance makes the heart race. ‘Tis true. What’s that old saying? A man in a suit makes my pants fall off? Accurate, more times than not. Unless he’s a cowboy, but that’s a tangent all its own.
Somewhere along the line, American boys got comfy, a little too comfy. Shirts are rarely tucked and almost never crisply ironed. And when did someone tell you, boys, that a t-shirt was appropriate gear for a date? Certainly not your mother. She knows all about the suit thing.
Perhaps it was just Milan and the crowd that Fashion Week attracts. However, seems Middle Chicken was struck by it as well as she shared a photo of a man’s attire in Venice; that taken she was. His shirt was so perfectly pressed, one could slice bread, along with a sweater strewn about his shoulders, just slightly akimbo. On purpose but supposed to look like not. Le sigh, boys, le sigh.
So, dolls, how do we rally the troops to get our big boys to tuck in their shirts and make us swoon?
Figure out that one, and I may not have to return to Italia for a fix. Pfft.