my husband, the fashionista

It has to be said, I have historically been attracted to men who care little about their choice of clothing. When I flip through a magazine, I pause longer to admire the advertisements containing unshaven, disheveled men wearing jeans and t-shirts than I do over those containing clean cut, dapper men in well tailored suits, or those wearing carefully styled and matching outfits.
And so I had to cringe when my husband opined about the importance of one's cuff links matching one's tie.
Here we go: yet another largely irrelevant disagreement. Is there anything in this world we actually agree on? But pacifism doesn't suit me. Taking a deep breath, I plunge in.
Really, it's not necessary to match your cuff links with your tie , I say.
Of course it is, he counters, just like you match your shoes to your bag!
I don't match my shoes to my bag, in color, as he was meaning. I try to roughly match their intentions, like if my shoes are my industrial, clunky everyday shoes, my bag will also be correspondingly slouchy and large. If my shoes are dainty, then I will switch to a bag with a smaller profile. Not: blue shoes, blue bag! Never mind that I don't feel the need to match their colors; I have very few options from which to choose. But that is another story.
I say simply, I don't match my shoes to my bag. (He snorts)
Undeterred, I press on: your cuff links are so small and insignificant, barely noticeable underneath your suit jacket; do you really think it's necessary to match them to your tie? (This thought boggles my mind; surely there are better things to think about?)
I want to cajole, why don't you live a little, be quirky, be crazy, and wear whatever tie is crying your name from its rack and put on the first cuff links you reach for? Because thinking about which cuff links best match your tie for one SECOND is really one second too long. But I don't say this. Instead, I silently muse about the metaphorical significance of this conversation: his annal attention to detail versus my throw caution to the wind attitude; and wonder once again how we ended up together.
He dismisses my comment, saying you do SO care about matching your shoes to your bag. I smile as I envision how this conversation could unfold: "do NOT!"; "do TOO!", over and over again. We are so sophisticated.
The following thoughts flood my brain and I am quickly overwhelmed and exhausted: Why do I need to defend my fashion choices to him? Who does he think he is, telling me what I wear and what I care about? Could he possibly believe he knows my mind better than me? Why must we have such a silly disagreement?
Perhaps pacifism has its merits, after all. So rather than go down this futile road, I just stare out the window and say, hmm.
Hmm, of course meaning: you are full of shit and I can't stand your sorry ass.