The Carpet and the Drapes

I feel it a matter of principle, as I am so free and loose with what I consider my best thoughts, that I openly confess my even-more frequent confusions and bafflements. The list of these is lengthy, and many of the puzzles that have confounded me over the years have remained, like liver spots in my brain, unyielding in the face of endless contemplation.

One such puzzle presented itself when I was a younger man and had met a perky, fun young woman with a sharp mind, intense gaze and a lively blonde mane. I met her one evening at a local club, when she was with a couple of her friends and I had dropped in to hear the band that was playing that weekend.

We hit it off and began dating. But I could tell this could go somewhere, so I stepped up my attendance at the club, hoping to run into her - any excuse to see her!

There sat her two friends, chatting. They didn't see me, so I slipped into the next booth, hoping for some covert intel.

They were talking about me!

"She says he really seems into her," one of them was saying. "How's he going to feel when he finds out that what he likes best about her came out of a bottle?"

"-when she gets him home," the other one said, "and he finds out the carpet doesn't match the drapes!" And they both laughed and laughed.

I'd hear this carpet-and-drapes thing before, and figured it was just another of those odd female obsessions, like shoes and toenails, that only makes sense to other women. I was mildly concerned about the "bottle" remark - was she a tippler? Was her jolly demeanor alcoholically inspired? I had seen no signs of this.

A couple of my friends were over the next afternoon, a Sunday, for football. I asked about this.

"Pete," I inquired, "does your wife care about the drapes?"

"Oh, hell, yes," he groaned. "It took her six weeks to make up her mind. She even sent one batch back after I'd wasted a weekend hanging them all. Cost me a damn fortune!"

I turned to the other. He nodded.

"Was it a color thing?"

"Color, texture," he said. "They had to be perfect. Had to match the sofa and love seat. And, of course, the carpet."

A-HA!!!

I turned back to Pete. He nodded.

"Ted," I said, "Did she care if you cared if the colors matched?"

He stared blankly. "I was never consulted."

"Ted," I asked carefully, "do you even know what color your carpet is?"

He thought a bit, and thought some more, and frowned. "I really have no idea," he finally confessed.

The next day, on the way home from work, I drove by her place - I hadn't yet been invited in - and surveyed the drapes hanging in the living room window. They looked like fine drapes to me. I had no idea what color they were. But they looked quite fine.

The following weekend I took her to a movie, and when I drove her home, she invited me inside for a drink.

"I've been so looking forward to having you here!" she confided as she dug out her house key.

"Me, too!" I said enthusiastically. "I've been dying to see if the carpet matches the drapes!"

She froze, and kind of stared at me, with an expression that was a clear mixture of fascination and horror. How can women do that? Go figure! I quickly deduced that she was not expecting this level of stylistic acuity in a man she'd only just met, so I just gave her a reassuring grin to set her at ease. She proceeded to unlock the door, albeit hesitantly.

Her place was much neater than mine, of course, and cheerfully decorated, with those extra pillows on the couch and inscrutable little sculptures on every shelf. I nodded approvingly as she stepped over to the bar to fix some drinks.

"The drapes I noticed right away," I commented, carefully stepping around the fact that I'd driven past her place earlier in the week (I didn't want to come across as creepy). "But I've had to settle for imagining the carpet!"

Once again she sort of froze, and I began to realize this was a sore spot - but I couldn't fathom why! I looked down at the carpet. It was a fine carpet, a truly homey, warm carpet. I was no more clear on the color of the carpet than the drapes, but if they clashed, I wouldn't have had a clue.

Handing me my drink, she gave me a nervous smile. "I'm not sure I've learned to tell when you're joking, or not," she said.

She put on an Oldies station and we sat on the couch chatting, having our drinks.

It needs to be said to women everywhere, of course, that men are completely oblivious to matters like this - like the shoes-and-toenails thing. We just have no clue, and wouldn't care, even if we did. When a man is invited in, the carpet and the drapes go right off his radar: he's just feeling lucky that he’s in.

But this was not the moment. Clearly this was very important to her, of the utmost sensitivity; I had tripped an insecurity, and she needed reassurance.

"I want you to know," I smoothly segued during a lull, "that I have no doubts at all about your aesthetic sensibilities. I have trusted all along that your carpet and drapes would match. I can tell you're not the sort of woman who would bungle something that important."

She showed me the door, and firmly instructed me to lose her number. Go figure!

You can see, I hope, that your Uncle Scott is only human, and sometimes just doesn't get it. I did, however, learn much from the experience: the next time I meet a male interior decorator, I won't be so quick to mock...