If my bra and panties match it means one of two things. One, it is my wedding day and I’m jammed into an all nude, roll-suffocating, hospital-grade duo. Or two, tonight is ‘the night’. Men are visual and this is the ancient signal to your partner that you aren’t going to have a headache tonight.
But it doesn’t work both ways.
Unlike the male perspective, for us women, it doesn’t matter what a guy is (or isn’t) wearing. Our desire to jump his bones depends on one thing, our mood. Which is the incalculable sum of the days conversations, subtle gestures, whispered tones, what we ate, a Luke Bryan music video, and so, so, so many other variables.
I get it if my husband is totally confused by this. One night I jumped him because he was sporting some generic glasses from the drugstore. Now when he casually wears them, hoping to spark an interest, I want to smack them off his face and throw the hideous things in the garbage.
I can’t explain the temporary fetish with the ‘I’m gonna teach you a very naked lesson’ glasses, but it was as fleeting as my interest in people telling me about the ‘weirdest dream’ they had last night.
Now the glasses, the gym shorts, the coveralls are added to a growing list of gear that get my side-eye rather than my full frontal. They just can’t stand up to my womanly whims. Yet the simple act of colour co-ordinating my undergarments will guarantee me a booty call.
Victoria has a secret and it is not to wear stained and mismatched PJs. Victor has a secret and it is to do the dishes, make her a drink, tell her she’s pretty, ask to cuddle and talk about her feelings.