ManCave

I love my ManCave. If a man’s house is his castle, his ManCave is his 5 star Hilton resort. The truth is most ManCaves are dumps, but appearance is only superficial. The attraction of the ManCave goes beyond structure, it lies in function. You see, a ManCave is anywhere or any place a guy can be himself. It is a safe place where he can do the things he loves and not have to apologize, justify, or explain his actions. Before you start having “Silence of the Lambs” thoughts, let me explain.
When we bought our current house it came with a carport (Oh excuse me, a porte- cochere), a greenhouse, a pool, and a freestanding structure about the size of a small bedroom. The prior owner had used this separate building as a woodshop (his ManCave no doubt) so it was decorated in early Cro-Magnon décor. Once all the equipment was removed its true rustic nature was revealed. Let me reiterate that a ManCave is not dependent on appearance, comfort, “Trading Spaces” worthiness, or the number of roach motels per square foot. A ManCave is a state of mind. So with much pleading and gnashing of teeth I convinced my bride to let me take over this space and make it my own. I suspect that she relented only because it was separate from the house and was shielded from all smells, sounds, or embarrassments that might emanate forth.
My ManCave became my sanctuary, my holy grail of contentment, and unquestionably my responsibility. She allotted me a generous budget of $24.99 for decorating, and darn if I didn’t easily come in below budget. You enter the ManCave on elevated iron meshwork that looks dangerously like the grates that cover those exploding steam vents on the streets of New York. You are immediately struck by the unique ambiance of the building because the door tends to stick in warm weather, and the first few minutes of the tour involve a hernia generating tug of war with the demon entrance. Once inside the attraction of the ManCave is apparent as the windowless humidity of mid July slaps you full force. Luckily I had the good fortune of finding a used window unit that fit nicely into a weak area in the wall. The parallel lines of 72 inch fluorescent lights flicker into action and the room is bathed in a sickly sallow luminescence. Prehistoric size roaches scatter with haste as to not disturb my approach. Only now, in the glare of the soothing artificial lights do you see the guts of the ManCave. In the center of the room is monolithic structure that could easily be mistaken for an ancient alter to an unknown god. In reality it is my UltraBody Stack 2000 circuit weight machine. Four stations of muscle straining, gut busting, hernia aggravating love. I have actually had this machine longer than I have been married. That is not to insinuate that this machine is anywhere comparable to my wife, believe me, she is much tougher. The weights have helped me through the tough times, only asking for the occasional lube job. There are no tears in its foam pads, but its pulleys are beginning to grind a bit, much like myself.
Surrounding the weight stack is a trinity of exercise equipment: stationary bike, treadmill, and punching bag. I must admit that I don’t utilize the punching bag often, but it is great for stress relief when my daughter says she wants to date a guy with more piercings than a Aborigine warrior. My treadmill and I have bond that is totally unnatural. It is a bit creepy when my treadmill has more miles on it than my car, but it runs on electricity, not $4 a gallon gas. This is actually my third stationary running trainer (as she prefers to be called). With Summer days that rival the Sahara and a schedule as unpredictable as earthquakes in California, I have learned that a quick jaunt on the treadmill allows me to train when otherwise I would be hooked up to an IV in an ICU recovering from heat stroke. I know the running snobs (and you know who you are) cringe in their CoolMax ultra ventilating shorts when anyone mentions treadmill training, but for me it works. I have conquered the boredom factor by positioning an old TV and DVD player in front of the treadmill to pass the time on longer runs. Not long ago my wife went with me to the local video rental store to check out some DVDs and she was horrified as she exclaimed, “Ron, those clerks all knew you by name!”.
“Yea, I guess I am in here quite a bit.” I calmly replied.
“Have you ever told them why you rent so many movies?” she asked. I could see where this was heading.
“No”. I took the bait.
“Oh my gosh, they probably think you are some pervert weirdo who has no job and just sits around all day and watches movies! I am never coming here with you again!”
“Don’t worry darling.” I reassured her. “I told them they were all for my wife who is on house arrest for exhibitionism.” I spent that night enjoying the solitude of my ManCave.
We all need that place where we can unwind, scratch various body parts, and watch reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger without offending anyone. Be it a ManCave, a car, or even a backyard, it is essential for each of us to seek and find a sanctuary where you can recharge. This is not some selfish wish or desire for it makes you a better you. Time to reflect and relax is at a premium in this society and it is one commodity that is constantly on backorder. Find your ManCave. Cherish it. Protect it. Let it make you a better man, husband, father and friend.