Or how men basically
still live in caves,
albeit with mod cons.
I know I know how old fashioned (but so grown up) is writing an actual letter !! But I thought it would be fun and somehow more real. New York City bachelor pads are just not what they used to be. Just that idea- a New York City bachelor pad- sounds glamorous enough to have a rotating bed on a zebra carpet. Of course, I could be picturing Austin Powers, and I may possibly be in a bright red mini and platform shoes.
But anyway. You get my point.
The question is why was it that my main problem was how to get Joe to get rid of his futon? That’s right: futon. Even the name sounds stupid.
“Here look,” he says excitedly, “I got one of these. Now, I can go to sleep but I can also have company over and give them a place to sit.” I wanted to smartly answer something about maybe a more practical day bed, or why not just get a hammock while you’re at it, but he seemed so earnest and excited I kept my thoughts to myself. I told him that it was a very thoughtful idea. Way to think ahead.
I fell- no, I was tossed- off that damn futon not once, not twice, but three times that night. It was hilarious the first time, but by morning I had already drawn the ultimatum. It was me or the futon. Apparently, it was a lot more difficult decision for him than I initially thought.
Bachelor pads have an ‘always will be free from a woman’s input’. In principle, it is a man’s place to do what he pleases. When he has an idea, especially one that actually attempts to anticipate future activity, it’s a good one and he has to stick by it. So, the futon stayed. I went. That’s it, off my chest.