A man loves not the woman herself, but the state when he is next to her. Many “gentlemen” at one time tried to explain why their family life did not work out and, as a rule, were unconvincing. They beat around the bush and talked nonsense. They were petty, pouring details into their pockets, and did not see the main thing. One complained that his ex-wife did not wear high heels and dresses.
Instead, she showed off in army boots and jeans and had her hair cut almost to the scalp. The second one was talking nonsense about Dontsova’s hobby and chattering on the phone. That she visited her precious mommy too often and just as stupidly rounded her mouth as her mother-in-law.
Dad’s friend complained about the lack of a hot lunch and greasy knives. That she had gained too much weight, lost too much weight, was overprotective, ignored, stopped taking care of herself, or had become a regular at beauty salons.
It’s all fleas.
The main thing is that next to such a woman he feels hungry, stupid, a mama’s boy, a loser, uninteresting, unattractive, and unsexy. One even claimed that he could not be at home. Everything was depressing: the walls, the smell of coffee, the words.
But it is unlikely that jointly chosen wallpaper and engravings bought for half price are capable of oppressing. What oppresses is what the woman transmits. The atmosphere, the mood, her attitude.
My husband once confessed: “You gave me the amount of admiration and recognition that I desperately needed. Before that, I tried to get something like that from two or three women, but it turns out that one can do it.”
One day, a very smart lady was consulting me about book covers. A famous illustrator, artist, and animalist. At that moment, she was sitting there, unkempt, although it was already past five in the evening, and finishing a pot of soup that, in my opinion, was slightly sour. The floor, sticky from a hundred times spilled tea, had glued my guest slippers to the floor.
In the sink, a week-old dish was leaning dangerously. On the table were scraps of food, a comb with a tuft of hair, a handbag, and even a boot insole. Having finished with her business, she complained that in her personal life, she was a complete “zero” and that she only met weaklings:
At first glance, he seems rich, with a business, but at the peak of our relationship, he loses everything. Then, with his tail between his legs, he runs away, and this has happened three times already.
She didn’t see any patterns and didn’t understand that the “suitors” were running away, flashing their heels, to save themselves.
Men love us not for our ability to compile dictionaries and ikebana. Not for our knowledge of the basics of the Bible and the Koran, the art of calligraphy, disguise, fencing, and making stuffed cabbage rolls. Not for our ability to play the lute, skillfully tie turbans, do carpentry, or decorate horses, elephants, and carriages.
Perform erotic dances “Raks Sharkhi” and engage in small talk. Fill pipes and teach swifts to speak. They love us for their internal microclimate. For who they feel like next to us: heroes or cowards, pillars or rags, kings or comedians. A man loves not a woman herself, but the state when he is next to her.
