I grew up with females. Well, except for Dad. But in a home
where even the dogs were girls, my poor Dad fought an uphill battle
to retain his machismo. (Translation:
”
I don’t have to put the toilet seat down unless your mom makes
me.
”
)
I grew up with females. Well, except for Dad. But in a home where even the dogs were girls, my poor Dad fought an uphill battle to retain his machismo. (Translation: “I don’t have to put the toilet seat down unless your mom makes me.”)
So living in a testosterone filled home always surprises me. Take dirty clothes, for example. A female will put her clothes into the hamper every time she wears them. This holds true for every piece of clothing, even if she was just trying on something to see if it fits.
The female rule is, if you put clothes on, then remove them, they’re dirty. Please don’t e-mail me about body issues and the like. It’s what we women do. I don’t know why. I used to think it was because maybe when we tried things on they got wrinkled or smeared with lipstick, but frankly, I think it’s the estrogen that makes us do this.
In any event, men rarely use the hamper. Unless you count the bedroom floor. In fact, if you are the type of person that considers the entire carpeted free space in your room to be a hamper then you are probably a man. I’m sure there are other ways to tell, but this is a family newspaper.
Bedroom floor aside, men do not try on outfits, then toss them aside if they don’t fit. Men don’t care if an outfit fits. They figure if they wore it last week, they can wear it again this week. They don’t worry about the entire case of chocolate cupcakes they ate while watching “Desperate Housewives.” They don’t worry about the after work drinks and appetizers they scarfed down after a big meeting last Thursday. They don’t fret that they haven’t been to the “Thighs of Pain” class at the gym in months. They just assume that none of this will matter and their clothes will always fit.
I’m telling you, life is simple for men. You don’t have to try on clothes and the world is your dirty clothes bin. What more could a man want other than a big screen TV and Pamela Anderson running toward him on a beach?
Of course this starts early – not the Pamela Anderson thing, although that can start before puberty. I’m talking the dirty clothes thing. Personally, I believe it starts in the womb, where a male gets used to swimming around naked while consuming room service. And once he’s out, he finds that life on the other side of the belly button has its advantages too. He can toss clothing on the floor and a couple times a week mom drops in, picks it all up and washes it, just so it ends up on the floor again. At least that’s how it happens in Junior’s room.
Now, in the interests of full disclosure, I must assure you that Harry doesn’t view the entire carpeted area of the bedroom as his own personal dirty clothes hamper. Because that man is perfect. I know this because he told me that if I complained about him once more in my column he was going to write a lengthy letter to the editor of this fine newspaper explaining what a pain in the rear I am to live with. So let’s just say right here and now that Harry does not throw his dirty clothes all over the floor. There is a chair near his side of the bed that he uses for that purpose.
Anyway, back to other men. Once the clothes are on the floor, they are stepped on, kicked, squished and tripped over. Now here’s the tricky part. I have no idea why males do this. Is it a way to say, “I’m the King and this castle is my personal pig-sty?” Or is it a long lost instinct that the female of the species will come by to do her ancient duty as a gatherer and come by to clean up the clothes?
Personally, I’m thinking it’s the whole gatherer thing. Or the king thing. It’s hard to decide. But in any event, since I have a boy, I have been able to observe the young male in his native habitat and I can tell you, this is not learned behavior. It’s like an animal instinct to just strip the clothes off and leave them lying around.
But that Pamela Anderson thing? That’s learned behavior for sure. Or maybe testosterone. It’s hard to tell.
