If you are a regular reader of this column, then you know I make it my business to keep abreast of trends.
If you are a regular reader of this column, then you know I make it my business to keep abreast of trends. When women of all ages started showing more cleavage during working hours, I brought the burgeoning news front and center. When restaurants started serving meals in beds, I rolled out the morsels of information.
Today I want to report on another trend that is taking America by storm: man caves. A man cave — or “mantuary” — is a sequestered space within a home where a man, married or not, can indulge in all those manly activities that promote decompression.
According to the latest research, a man’s need to decompress has reached an all-time high, which explains why all men — not just toothless mountain men named Jeeter — are seeking a cave of their own.
Believe me, I understand the urge to get away from it all and chill out. And even though I would not engage in the same activities that men do to relax — say, watching uninterrupted sports or strumming a guitar made out of air — I can appreciate indulging in mindless activities that give one’s brain a chance to return to its favorite state: tapioca.
What’s got me scratching my head is the news that today’s man has an increased and overwhelming need to decompress. What’s up with that?
After consulting a group of highly enlightened married women — OK, my mother and sister — we all concluded that men are suffering from SSAD, a.k.a. Sink Space Adjustment Disorder. Brought on by a serious loss in sink space to the Female of the House, this disorder is driving men to seek refuge in basement mantuaries.
In all fairness to women, it’s not our fault that we have become sink-space hogs. Every day we are bombarded with yet another product that will make us smell better or glow brighter or erase those pesky crow’s feet. And because we are who we are — women with boundless skin issues – we are obliged to try each and every product that is thrust upon us. It’s exhausting, really, downright burdensome, a monkey on our rash-y backs.
Nonetheless, we do understand how our artillery of beauty products — our mists and moisturizers, creams and cleansers, lotions and lipsticks, balms and bronzers — might cause you men to compress a little. Heck, it causes us to compress and we’ve got the lion’s share of sink space! But now is not the time to talk about why our checking accounts are always empty.
This column is about men, man caves, and curling Farrah Fawcett posters.
Here’s what so confounding though. Why can’t we join you in your decompression chamber, even for just a little while? We promise we won’t put a bottle of lotion anywhere. We won’t touch your CDs. We will respect your carpeted walls. Man oh man, we won’t even talk!
But, no. We’re not allowed. Warning sign or not, we sense our presence is highly unwelcome in your manly mantuary.
Okay, fine. Have it your way. Burrow till your toenails grow a foot long. But do know this: When we women are involved in a deep decompression of our own — say, when we have invited 10 girlfriends over to watch “The Way We Were,” and we are all crying and sniffling and hugging each other while sipping pink Cosmopolitans — don’t expect us to invite you into our little cave. No way, Jose! Not gonna happen!
Hurts, doesn’t it?
Anne Palumbo writes this weekly column for Messenger Post Newspapers. E-mail: email@example.com.