If there is any aspect of life that screams inequality, but at the same time is a mystery, it’s the ubiquitous man cave.
Sammy the Bull may have ratted out John Gotti. Fellow cyclists raced to report Lance Armstrong’s doping. But a single husband has yet to break bro code and come clean about what really goes on in the man cave. It’s like Vegas: “What happens in the man cave, stays in the man cave.”
What exactly do men do in their cellars while the wife’s upstairs making dinner and folding the laundry? Watch porn? Smoke pot? Video chat with underage hookers from Peoria?
As a single mom who shoulders the burden of both husband and wife, I so get why every men needs a man cave, a personal Shangri-La void of screaming kids and dirty dishes, and where they can recharge their batteries.
I live in a cramped NYC apartment. No space for a man cave here. But, should I ever move to the green patch of land outside the Holland Tunnel called the ‘burbs, you bet your life the first thing I’d build in my new digs is a man cave.
Forget the paneling and classic rock posters, though. I don’t do well in damp places, so I’d move mine to the attic where I’d have a nice window overlooking my lawn and garden, and some nice comfy overstuffed ouches and chairs. I maybe even throw in some skylights for those starry nights I’d be up there hiding from my kid and husband, who I assumes comes with the house.
Since I’m not really into porn – I could never follow the plot – I’d stock it with knitting supplies, good books and magazines I stole from my dentist’s office. Pot’s not my thing either, so I’d get a frig and fill it with white wine.
Oh, I almost forgot the most important thing: a big sturdy dead bolt for the door so l can work on “reports” and have “conference calls” in private. Wink, wink.