You know, it’s occurred to me that there are some interesting differences between men and women. Yes, I know about the obvious ones, but there are other, more subtle dissimilarities that we don’t necessarily think about every day.
This revelation was brought home to me recently when a couple of really great friends of mine drove here from their respective new homes in the Sierras to kidnap me for a day of girl bonding – but that’s all they would say. The occasion being a continuation of my birthday celebration, I was in – even though I hadn’t a clue what I was in for.
I did know this date would not include any of the following: shooting any manner of gun; attending a major sporting event; the operation of tools or heavy equipment; scratching any body part below the neck; or spitting.
What I did foresee were discussions about the merits of highlights versus lowlights, the best face creams, whether 50 really is the new 30 and if so then 60 must be the new 40 and so on with the universal agreement that we may no longer be young in terms of our years, but by gosh! – we can be immature forever if we want to.
Now I don’t see many guys getting together to share feelings in such a lighthearted manner. In fact, I’ve overheard male conversations that consist mainly of grunts, burps and rumbles – some being nearly imperceptible to the female ear – or in more unfortunate cases – way too perceptible depending on said males’ recent dietary indulgences.
On this day we gal pals headed to Pacific Grove for lunch. It was such a clear and beautiful, blue-sky day that we knew we had to dine with the ocean in view. The waves were kicking up spiritedly and the sea-green color was spectacular. We had all the essential elements for lunch at the coast including elastic waistbands and a good stockpile of conversation destined for dining out with the girls.
When we entered the restaurant it was early and, therefore, empty of other diners. This fortunate circumstance presented a plethora of tables and a superb opportunity to “try on” the scenery from several different vantage points. Did we want to sit over here by the fire? How about the view of the water: was it better over there, nearer the door, or what about further toward the back? Our waiter was a fortuitously happy guy who followed us about energetically, bearing voluminous menus as we darted back and forth. After a few rounds of musical tables, we found perfection: fireplace across the way, ocean view from the panoramic windows. And you’d think that would have settled it; but no.
“Gale, you should sit on this side of the table where you can see the waves,” said my friend, Rosemary, and I dutifully moved. This was, after all, my official birthday lunch – hence the critical placement objective for the birthday girl.
“No, look! You can see even better on this side,” responded Robin, as I hopped up and moved around the table and back to where I’d originally sat. Our waiter, whose smile was still in place but maybe straining just a tiny bit at the edges, handed us our menus, which might just as well have been IRS forms for all the attention we were paying them. Chatter and laughter were now in full swing.
“Can I tell you about the specials?” asked our waiter hopefully, and I think he possibly did convey that information to us, except by now we were deep into deliberations on the subject of wine.
“I’m driving, so I won’t have wine,” said Robin.
“I’d love a glass but it will make me sleepy,” I offered because it is, unfortunately, true.
“I don’t really need wine,” Rosemary reflected. “I’m fine with iced tea. But you two girls should have a glass of wine.”
Back and forth we volleyed before reaching the inevitable conclusion that we’d all have a glass of wine, even deciding on a variety. Our waiter, meanwhile, had lapsed into some confusion about whether we might actually place a lunch order at some point. And, of course when we did decide to order, we’d already forgotten the specials.
“What was the salmon again?” one of us asked. One final recitation by the waiter, and our lunch requests were complete and hastily dispatched to the kitchen before somebody could change her mind.
Now if you are a woman, conceivably you can totally relate to this, right? Men, on the other hand: not so much. Because how many groups of guys enter a restaurant and worry about the view unless it’s to get closer to the big screen TV for a playoff game? Or, OK, maybe at Hooters.
And I can double-dog-guarantee you that at no time will you hear guys say, “WooHoo – Fred is having a beer!”
There is one significant characteristic that I think lots of women share with the guys, however, and that has to do with what I call “maintenance.” Male friendships tend to be pretty much low maintenance. Men don’t need to see each other on a rigorous schedule to be pals, and I like that about guys. If a girlfriend is what I consider “high maintenance,” that’s a friend I tend to drift away from eventually. And if an acquaintance reads you the riot act if you don’t check in every day, to you I say: “Save yourself, Sister!”
Because the best kind of friends are the ones connected at the heart – not at the hip. When you think about it, that kind of friendship is one of those “guy things” that I like best.
Gale Hammond is a 23-year Morgan Hill resident. Reach her at
Ga*********@ao*.com
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