Men are cuddly and have curly toes. Men let you snuggle, curled in tight against their side, caught up in the crook of their arm with your nose pressed against their chest.
Men wash the dishes and take out the garbage. But never spiders.
Men don't understand the lure of high heels. They think lipsticks are sticky and that perfume is poison gas, and that cosmetics turn you into a misguided femme fatale who doesn't realize how appealing she is in her naked, woman-scented barefoot skin.
Men wear button-down plaid shirts. In winter they wear button-down plaid shirts made of flannel. Just like their fathers.
Men don't wear turtlenecks until you give them one for Christmas, and then they spend 15 minutes in front of the bathroom mirror, turning their heads from side to side and preening.
They don't ever look at floral Hawaiian summer shirts, even in the shops, until you buy them one for their birthday, and then you get into a terrible shouting argument and leave the room in tears.
And then they wear it on the 4th of July to a summer concert at the Boston Hatch Shell and eight women walking by (he counts) stop and give the up-and-down double-take once-over, and when they call to tell you, they are rapt with admiration for their splendid taste.
And then they begin to understand the lipstick, and offer to take you out shopping as long as it's for lingerie, and are happy to offer their opinions. Right in the dressing room, if you like.
After that, it's a slippery slope. Six months later, men find themselves dressed for a costume party - bare chested, wearing a rhinestone studded collar and a velvet leash, pressed up against a bathroom wall while you apply mascara.
They prefer not to tell their fathers.
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