Come on you knew we would get to this one day, the Italian male. If the pinnacle of birth in Britain is to be born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth, to be born an Italian male is to be born in a golden cradle. If he has any quiet moments of reflection in between being kissed with loud wall shaking smackers from all the adoring parents, relatives and siblings the newly produced Italian male must look to the heavens raise his tiny fist and shout Yes YES YES. He has achieved the Buddhist equivalent of Nirvana. He is the centre of the universe and will be for the rest of his life and he knows it.
He will live a life in Italy that we other European males only dare dream of whilst we sit alone in our shed at the bottom of the garden with a large G&T whilst furtively looking over our shoulders lest the wife has come in and guessed our thoughts. He will live a life that North American males aren’t even allowed to think about. In fact I’m not sure they are even allowed sheds let alone G&T’s.
His life is mapped out for him. An adoring mother will molly coddle him through his formative years waiting on him hand and foot as will any sisters he might have and then in his middle thirties he will add a wife to the mix whilst keeping his mother and they will both then vie for his attention .
Because his every need is looked after he has time to preen. He preens in the barbers shop where he studies his reflection with an intensity that would embarrass us other non Italian males. His feminine side is encouraged and he seems born with innate colour sense and feels confident in colours that used to cause Aussie men in an outback pub to move well down the bar.
Stand near by a shop window that offers a reflection when in Italy and watch. In the UK a male might glance at his reflection but is probably more likely to have walked into a lamp post while trying to get a better view of the blonde in the mini skirt on the other side of the street. The Italian male assumes indeed believes the blonde is looking only at him so pay her no attention. He therefore stops, looks full on at his reflection, touches a loose hair, moves slightly the sunglasses on the top of his head, adjusts the jacket worn over the shoulders, turns sideways and studies again before moving on. He is the centre of the universe.
I remember visiting an Italian friend in Rome a few years back. He had just married a Contessa. She was monied, ran two successful businesses, owned several houses and earned twenty times what he earned. She certainly was no country bumpkin. He showed us around their huge apartment near the Via Venito . This is my wife’s bedroom he said and then further down the hallway he opened a door and showed us his much larger bedroom with a bathroom full of every form of toiletry and bathroom accessory. Separate bedrooms I said, I thought you Italians were great lovers. He pointed to a button above the bed just within arm reach. I push the button he said and a bell rings in her room and she comes to me but only when I want her. He pushed and sure enough just down the hall we heard the ring of a bell.
Let’s be honest all us males not born Italian spend many waking hours going where did I go wrong ? Perhaps in the next life God you’ll look after me, what do I have to do ???
Of course there is the opposite side of the coin being born an Italian woman. They unfortunately are born like the Who song Substitute with a plastic spoon in their mouth!
Well I have to go , got to clean the yard, get the washing in and finish the list of chores I was handed this morning before I’m allowed out to the pub. Jealous of the Italian male me ? Me? ………..