I’ve been living in Italy for over a month now, which in this day and age, gives me the authority to make sweeping generalizations about Italian men. That’s the unfortunate thing about blogs and modernity and being an unemployed 22-year-old; there’s no one to really hold me accountable (besides God, duh, and possible future employers) for my crass, un-nuanced remarks.
OK, so now I’ll proceed with my verdict on an entire country’s male population: Italian fellas are weak, man. I’m unimpressed for many reasons, ranging from the superficial to the slightly less superficial to the fundamental to the eyebrows.
Where better to start than with eyebrows? Eye(brow)s are the window into a man’s soul. In Italy, men think it’s acceptable to wax their eyebrows to be sleak, arched, dramatic. I want to smash a bottle over the head of whoever told them this was a good look. Because it’s not. If you’re going to put a lot of effort in to your appearance—which they do, much more effort than me—choose one thing. Like, you can’t have super manicured eyebrows AND a knock-off Dolce and Gabana man purse AND gelled hair AND tight, knee-length shorts AND effeminite jewelry. I’m not asking you to not be yourself, I’m just asking you to choose just one, if not none, of these things, and if that means not being yourself, please don’t be yourself.
I promise I also have legitimate concerns. For one, Italian men are scared of women, particularly foreign women, particularly American women with a propensity for short-shorts and drinking and breaking it down in empty, over-lit bars (guilty, guilty, guilty).
Italian men will friend you on Facebook; Italian men will drive by in a car and scream unintelligable but certainly derogatory things at you; Italian men, ones who are your waitors and thirty years your senior and one hundred pounds your larger, might leave you a slip of paper with “CALL ME!!!” and their phone number alongside your bill.
But Italian men will not strike up a conversation with you in a friendly, humane way. They won’t ask about your day. The courageous ones might ask to your boobs, “Where are you from?” But that’s pretty much the extent of it.
Now, like most things I write, this isn’t fair. I’ve made plenty of well-adjusted male Italian friends, and I’m sure I’ll make more.
But come on, ragazzi, get it together. I don’t ask for a lot in life. I don’t ask for jewels or nice furs or diamond rings or even basic things, like a job or ambition. But I do ask for just ONE MAN, just ONE MAN, to maybe spend a little less time in the shower than me, to talk to me with real interest and respect, and to take me out to the cornfields (because he still lives with his mama) and have his way with me.
Until then…I’ll be stewing in frustration. I never thought I’d say this, but I miss American men. Dangggggg.