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Coffee Klatch and Gender Mortality
I walked into a coffee shop a few days ago for a ham and cheese croissant and a cup of drip coffee, black. Ahead of me stood a partially good-looking, partially unattractive, woman. I quickly figured out what it was that I found so unattractive. Her mouth was open. It wasn’t that her mouth was open per se. Like an open window that allows the neighbors to see inside a messy house, her mouth allowed for a disturbingly unfiltered view into the brain, due mostly to the words emerging therefrom.
She spoke with a man who wore a pair of those flat-front slacks; the sort of pants that a man wears when he wants to reassure anyone who is worried that he might have testicles. They tapered down smoothly to a pair of semi-casual, semi-dress (black with a hint of bright, faux-rebellious modernity) sneakers. Wrapped with meticulous sloppiness above his shoulders was a scarf that looked rather more like a leash around the neck of a Ken doll. He wore his head cocked passively to the side as his hands warmed gently on the nonfat half-shot-sugar-free vanilla soy latte, and on his face was a pair of scrunched-up eyes, contoured in an attempt to broadcast only the most sincere empathy, as bolstered by a periodic understanding nod.
As I approached earshot, the woman was discussing that second apartment that she kept in Seattle, just so I can still say I live there. Nod, yes, of course, I feel the icky stickies being this far into the unsophisticated backwaters of semi-rural nowhere (at least, nowhere important) as well. Always keep at least one toe in the warm bowl of pretension, as they say, to keep your PH (pretension health) levels balanced.
He asked whether the firm would cover rent. She continued, further discussing the job that had so cruelly ripped her from that rainy nirvana, the pinnacle of advancement, having progressed all the way to the Puget Sound, and setting its sights longingly toward China. I half-listened to something about their policy on housing, blah blah, and so forth, but, as they know — and here she spoke with all the serious gravity of one who really, really wants to believe what she’s saying — my career comes before my marriage. I looked at her face for that grin of sarcasm; none. I looked for the laughter that follows an obvious joke; none. I looked any hint of embarrassment; entirely absent.
…And it will last longer, too, I murmured to myself. But, not to worry. Make enough money and you can plan for that lapdog to keep you company as you sit out your retirement alone, husband long gone. And your narcissistic kids, who reminisce more fondly on their nanny than their mother, waiting patiently for you to have the good sense to die already so that you still have enough money to leave them… to fund their own big-city vanity apartments. I suppose that’s presuming the existence of those parasites commonly diagnosed as “children.”
The remainder of the conversation faded out as I contemplated whether that little bump of happiness brought by an almond nut pastry would justify the $3.75 and the sticky fingers. I had recently dry-cleaned my pants — pleated, of course — and had just opted out of the additional pastry when I tuned back in for closing remarks. The man looked at his conversation partner, head still cocked understandingly, leash taut around his neck, and said: thank you so much for sharing with me. I glared at them both and bit down on my cigar. I would have bitten down on my cigar, had there been one in my mouth.
On my way to the cigar store, I couldn’t stop thinking about that comment. I remembered that informal interview I had with an attorney a few years back — he was well known in his church and seemed to have a good reputation, all balanced somehow with the fact that he was a partner in a moderately big-money firm. I told him that I’ve never struggled to have the integrity to do my job well, but that the only reason I work is to support my family, so they will always come first. I will work hard and take pride in what I do, but I will never prefer that work over my family.
He told me that I need to love what I do so much that I want to come in on Saturdays. He told me that I shouldn’t be a lawyer. I’m not a lawyer, I said. I’m a writer. I’m a husband and father, but I happen to have a J.D. and a bar card and some very expensive knowledge. Being a lawyer is kind of like being a political pundit. You can take yourself seriously, or you can become extremely good at spotting the nonsense. The two really are mutually exclusive.
Maybe our kids are little walking failures, just reminding us that we are giant walking failures. The notion that kids are pure is one that was written by an idealistic old maid who fantasized about a different life. On the contrary, they wear their imperfection just like they wear sand in their hair, dirt on their hands, and food on their chins; with no regrets about where they’ve been and what they were doing, with no regard for how they look, with very little sense of shame, even when they know they’re wrong. It is our work to teach them how to behave and think and act; and, for those of us who believe in any sort of human nature or even (dare I say?) original sin, how to make the right decisions in that constant struggle between competing innate tendencies toward good and bad.
“I got into trouble for fighting with Junior today at school because he ran into me on his bike.” Well son, I snapped at a colleague in court today when she accused me of changing my position at the last minute, even though I had already made it perfectly clear… I sent an apology letter this afternoon, despite being right all along. And you know what? When you’re grown up, Junior will still be running into you on his bike, and sometimes it will even be your own fault. Find a way to get along, and for goodness’ sake, don’t start to take yourself seriously.
Besides, the only way to really do that is to remove all reminders of your imperfections. This is that adult tendency to never be alone with our thoughts; to always have work at our fingertips, because work is something we can perfect, it is our creation — and, unlike our children, it doesn’t have a nature all its own. We can pretend that what we do is right, that it is lasting, that it is finally somehow higher and more noble than all the same exact things that people have been doing for generations upon generations. Those people saying that the things of the soul are eternal… that ain’t science, buddy.
My manhood is one of those eternal attributes, something to celebrate and foster and encourage; my wife’s womanhood is another of those eternal attributes, and I can’t think of a time when I didn’t admire and love it. As I glared at the postmodern coffee klatch of two, I decided it was time to embrace my sexism. I had no respect for a man whose very existence is based on a belief in gender sameness; in proving his purpose in life was recompense and guilt (however hypocritical, as he stratified every aspect of his actual existence). I had no respect for a woman who needed a career and didn’t need a family, who seemed to value nothing but those mortal elements that only really ever look important to those who take themselves seriously… you have to, because otherwise, it’s still just you and Junior on the playground.
Someone just ran into you with his bike; those two guys keep playing with the truck you really wanted. Teacher isn’t paying attention, and you just dropped a cookie in some dirt. There isn’t anything more to life than that — but for those few immortal things we try so desperately to erase in favor of our own creations.
Published in General
Any post which both rails against flat front pants and sings the praises of pleats is doubleplussgood
As ever, Ryan, this is a breath of fresh air and a stimulus to reflection: Blessed Advent!
Hah! I just noticed your handle and avatar. A fellow pleated-pant brother. Good to have you on board.
What’s with the non-pleated pant hate?
-E
CandE – if you are looking for a non-pleated site I recommend Daily Kos. This site is pleats only
We’ll have to go to coffee together (I prefer dark roast in the morning) should I have the privilege of returning to western Montana. We can have a good conversation but would note that some people are so far gone that they won’t be able to recognize what we will be talking about, such as the gift of a wonderful spouse and enjoying one’s children as they grow up, imperfect but still quite lovable. Those people have no place for such considerations, virtue having fled their vicinity in the face of militant apathy.
Or maybe we can twit them with straight faces?
Either works for me.
Thanks.
dt
My wife would never let me wear pleated pants. Well, without laughing at me.
Sir, where can you possibly fit your phone, wallet, and keys in flat front pants? You’d have to where a fanny pack.
Huh. I guess my vague sense that pleated pants are for pretentious dorks wasn’t that far off. :P
We are definitely dorks, but pretension is solely with you flat fronters. With how tight flat fronts are I don’t know how you even think in those things? They leave nothing to the imagination and your hand gets stuck in your pocket when trying to fish out your keys
I was sort of noncommittal on this topic, but you do make an excellent point.
And now Ryan must be thinking, “I took the time to write an essay over 1,000 words long and the only comments people have are about pants.”
Please explain to me this reactionary attitude toward flat-fronted pants. If you’re a corpulent man, pleats on the front of the waistband could be quite functional, I suppose. But if you’re not corpulent, the pleats just look all poufy and wrinkly and, well, useless to me.
My husband alternates indiscriminately between pleated and non-pleated. All pleated pants do for him is give him a paunch that he doesn’t really have. So what’s the point?
Is the point of pleated pants only to not be mistaken for a hipster?
Wait, I thought the post was about pants
Ryan, you need to chill just a wee bit here. Some of the coolest, most masculine men I know would never be allowed to wear anything but flat fronts (my husband ) but we’d both draw the line at a scarf. No metrosexual wardrobe in my family!
Also, no woman — and I mean no woman– means: my career comes before my marriage in this day and age unless she is unattractive, has no boyfriends, or no prospects whatsoever for marriage. That excuse is sooo 70s!
I suppose your jeans are pleated too (assuming you wear jeans)?
-E
My husband doesn’t have this problem with his flat-fronts. Then again, he doesn’t wear flat-fronts that are supertight.
It’s still a bit off-putting to me when men wear pants so tight that they hug the thighs and hips the way women’s pants are supposed to do. But I would attribute that problem to the pants’ tightness more than their lack of pleats. Pleated pants that are also too tight are something of a rarity, but when they do occur, they are even uglier than non-pleated tight pants.
Pleated pants are the stylish sport utility vehicle that gets you through the snow as well. Flat fronts are the all flash German import that breaks down every 1000 miles. Is your husband more pleasant to be around in pleats? I’ll bet. And, yes, the non-hipster angle is a bonus
E – please stay on topic, we are talking about pants here
Ryan, you’ve found the newest comment-generating bomb. Men vs. Women, Socons vs. Libertarians, Mac vs. PC, 9mm vs .45, and now Flat-front vs. Pleated.
Topic for another post but I have not worn jeans since college. I dropped them when the 80+ crowd started wearing them as I knew they had jumped the shark
I hate to break it to you, but the 80+ crowd started wearing pleated pants a few years ago, too.
The first two paragraphs detail precisely why I only go to Seattle if lured there to hang out with the Ricochetti.
That I can forgive. Do you really want to see grandpa in flat fronts?
It’s tricky. I was shopping for new jeans today and the horrified sales associate at Saks told me: No More Boot Cut!
Ok, but I still don’t like wearing 4-inch heels with skinny jeans so what do I do with the Louboutins and Choos? These are serious problems, people!
I don’t know what it is about pleats for me – except that they seem to wear much better. I’m not fat, but I’m not rail-thin, either (185 at 5’10” or so). As much, though, I think about the way 1940’s men looked in suits; Bing or Danny Kaye… the pants of my grandpa, who was about as manly an old WWII vet is you could find. It makes me think about men who aren’t afraid to be men. Not the hollywood stereotype of the 50’s misogyny, but definitely a sense of responsibility. So maybe it’s just that. Plus, I see flat-fronts on all the metro-sexual girly-boys these days, wearing their scarves and skinny ties. I’ll freely admit that it’s a style thing.
Hey, my 85 yr-old father-in-law who weighed a trim 155 at 5 ’10” looked fab in flat front khakis and a Gap white tee.
Then he needs to have his suits tailored better. Flat-front pants give a weird little bunch-up near the pockets (unless you don’t have any) and they only look decent if you’re standing straight up and not moving. Pleats allow for movement, they allow you to put your hands in your pocket or lean on something. When they fit well, they are not a paunch but quite the contrary. Think of the old symmetrical linear architecture of the gothic, compared with that modern-art garbage that’s all boxy and looks like it was thrown together by a blind toddler. Pleated pants are classy!
… it happens with virtually every one of my posts. Hey, if it gets people reading, I’m ok with it!
It’s a direct quote, I swear it. And she wasn’t unattractive. Until you get to know her, I imagine. (or listen to her talk for 3 minutes in a coffee shop)