Every man has something wrong with him. And I don’t mean that in the jaded, millennial, “men are trash” way. I mean it objectively, and with a sense of genuine compassion: No one’s perfect—especially men.
Given this, I think there’s some truth to the cliché that women often want to “fix” the men they date. We’ve heard it a million times: He’d be perfect, if only he were better at communicating, or stopped flirting with other women, or would shut the fuck up about nootropics, or had a working dick. Famously, women love a project. (I realize I’m leaning into gender essentialism here, but someone’s got to stand for heterosexual visibility.) But how much can we expect our partners to change for us? And in trying to better our boyfriends, are we being generous—after all, we obviously know best—or taking on the world’s most Sisyphean task? Are we delusional, or can you change a man?
When I first met my ex, he didn’t own plates. He was 33 and surviving on a diet of Cheerios eaten from a Jimmy Kimmel Live mug. I found this puzzling, but didn’t want to nitpick too early. As I spent more time at his place, though, I got sick of hovering over the sink to eat tuna salad from my hands like a gremlin. At the risk of seeming like a crazy lady from a ’90s rom-com who registers at Williams Sonoma after the second date, I took the leap and bought some dinnerware.
Months passed, and we decided to move in together. His house was beautiful, but the decor read like a frat boy’s interpretation of avant-garde—the closets had no doors, his bed was mysteriously in the wardrobe, and the bedroom was essentially a shrine to a dusty exercise bike. He didn’t see the issue. To him, a home wasn’t about stability—it was a place to sleep and fuck in between going to restaurants. In my mind, this was an easy fix; together we’d decorate the house, buy some overpriced ceramic bowls and a Vitamix, host spaghetti dinners for friends, and he’d quickly learn the pleasures of a more grounded, domestic life. I saw tablescaping in our future.
Fast forward four years. The house looked incredible, but—perhaps unsurprisingly—I was the only one who cooked, did laundry, shopped for groceries, and watered the godforsaken fiddle-leaf. Turns out, the cloth napkins were just a Band-Aid. He didn’t become domestic; he just learned that MoMA Design Store has chic end tables. And while this all might sound like a criticism of him, it’s truly not. I went in expecting him to change, and that’s on me. I’m the idiot.
For all the latest fasion News Click Here
