One Small Step for Man, One Giant Leap Back in Time for Mankind...

With the amount of city hopping I have packed in during the last few weeks, I would normally have a host of random thoughts and sightings to ponder over but, as it goes, there isn't typically a lot to catch your eye when caught in the middle of paranormal summer weather that feels like windy autumn. Except the pavement.

Controversially, however, despite my line of sight being tunnel-visioned to the sidewalk to avoid the wind and rain of May, I have been inadvertently immersed in a Boot-camp that has left me mesmerised about the misguided steps of the feet on our streets, wondering….when it comes to putting on their shoes, where do our men get so lost between fashion forward and stepping back in time?

I do confess to focussing on a good outer presentation, a standard no-one should apologise for and, indeed, I go as far as to suggest that our men may have an easier battle in looking good – a good suit, good jeans, tailored clothing (even for casual dressing), in general, will excuse many an imperfect physique and really showcase those fortunate to be less than imperfect. But this week, as I console myself at the state of passing soles, I wonder ...do men just get bored by the time they get to the shoes and socks, or do they really believe that one style fits all? What is it that makes men think they can go through life with a single pair of shoes?

Now, we are not talking sub 25 year olds today (indeed there is a certain male stylista of any age that can rock sneakers casual or formal). No, this is the grown up shoe problem…

The unexplained je ne sais quoi in the male Adult-shoed brain that thinks that ye-old-faithful pair of black elongated pointy shoes they relentlessly wear for work are inter changeable with jeans and suits. The misguided belief that having a fall-back pair of brown antiquated leather (probably more pointed for the weekend and unlikely to be real leather) at the back of the wardrobe keeps them ready for every fashion. And the Zoolander of foot-fashion faux-pas - the flash of an overtly exuberant (aka pass me my sunglasses) brass buckle, sometimes two and painfully often three.

By this stage I am at the verge of a fashion intervention or a scream for the style gods of Sweeney and Smith to descend from the rooftops!  For once glad of the winds and rain, I remained eyes-down for fear that an elevated line of sight may lead me to the crimes of denim that would undoubtedly be hoisted high with a belt as garishly buckled as the clown shoes and, as I continue on my path of shoe sin I wonder ….just where did the penchant for pointy start and end?

Do our boys not realise that having a buckle is admitting adult velcro and, if your shoes are so pointed they start to curl up like a jester, they are indeed the joke...?  Indeed, at what point does man fashion DNA turn DOA?

‘Til next time, Pandora

‘Half plus Seven’ – The Calculus Cure for Cougarville?

A ubiquitous lifestyle means I spend frequent down-time in hotel bars and lobbies, strictly (of course) to break the cabin fever of hotel living. With the right locale, and I admit to being stylishly picky, there is no better company than a fresh mojito in the ambiance of low-key loungerino Café del Mar-esque tunes and the muted shades of mocha décor to put you in the perfect people watching mood. This voyeur approach to social networking, however, doesn’t always go unaccompanied, albeit it is mostly unsolicited, but this weekend as I settled back in my locale du choix, I wondered….do the boundaries of dating get blurred after dark or, has anthropology infact taken over mythology when it comes to ‘Half, plus seven"…..

If "Half, plus Seven" is  considered the age-old dating rule for men, designed to justify the socially acceptable age threshold for dating of younger women, I wonder …just how much of a malculus is behind the logic of this anthropological genius and if it was so suitably ‘scientifically’ calculated by a male mathematician?  

I mean, observing this theory, a buff 30-year old can comfortably continue to ‘go-Dutch’ with a 22 yr old at the Student’s Union. Equally the maturing 40-year old can, in theory, legitimately beauty-parade a fresh 27 year old in his mid life crisis yellow sports car. Ergo, if the math follows male logic, then I wonder... is this why, even at the north end of the dating ladder, the worst category that the dating man can reach is the Platinum Sugar Daddy Club, itself a kudos of supreme levels at the 19th hole and Saturday full-time whistle?

Conversely, however, is it a case that the dating female counterpart has the freedom of dating only in her early years? The femathematician can round down at just a fraction of her male predators - a 30 year old female dating under-30 is critiqued for cradle-snatching yet promptly, from the ripe old age of 35 she becomes a cougar cub and the short years that follow to 40 are clearly spent marking her territory for full cougar adulthood. Ridiculous as this may sound there is a large, indeed growing, population of females who wish to savour the assortment of soft centres, caramels and rich pralines before the taste buds are restricted to the abandoned sugar-daddied jellies and Turkish Delight but I wonder…..has society already established a pre-conception of acceptance that means the sugar-free reality for the untamed cougar park quite simply has fewer choices from the candy box and a much shorter ladder than the ‘Half-plus-Seven’ Men’s Club?

So, as we continue to break shackles of conformity and feel empowered to self-preserve by defying gravity and shorten the hemline with every birthday, I wonder...is there really an escape from the birth certificate or are we destined to enter the cougar reserve park and await the retirement of the Manther?

‘Til next time, Pandora