Treatment for Male Tastelessness Disorder

Young men need advice.  Here is some.

This weekend, a woman I admire sent me a message that formed a well-pointed finger.  Why, Man Talk Now, she asked, do so many young men keep such pathetic, woman-unfriendly apartments?

An interesting question, madam.  Can you be more specific?

I certainly can, she replied.  My friend is a tax attorney, about to turn 30.  He has some money.  He enjoys bringing lady friends to his home.  And his “bachelor pad” is a disgrace.  What’s wrong with you men?

Well, she didn’t say that last line, but I heard it anyway.

She’s right, of course.  I suffered, once upon a time, from Male Tastelessness Disorder.

When I was on the cusp of 30, I broke up with a live-in girlfriend.  I left town for the weekend she was to move out, congratulating myself once again on my conflict-avoidance skills.  It was a mistake.

When I returned Sunday evening, my condo looked as if it had been robbed by extremely thorough thieves.  It was bare, save for the few things my ex knew I simply couldn’t live without.

I had my king size futon and a clock radio.  Nothing else in the master bedroom.

I had a $40 IKEA desk under my computer.  Nothing else in the second bedroom.

I had a few unmatched plates and glasses, and a handful of stolen cafeteria utensils, leftovers from my college days.  Nothing else in the kitchen.

In the living room, dining room and solarium, I had a big, blue couch, coffee table and floor lamp, all left by the previous owner of the condo.  And my pride and joy:  A huge television and excellent stereo system, assembled with love and pleasure, component by component.

That was all.  You could play football in my condo.  I know this, because my friends and I did so regularly.  Then we’d eat pizza on the floor.

The funny thing was… I rather liked it that way.  It was low-maintenance.  Very tidy.  I had a cleaning lady in once every two weeks, because I don’t like actual cleaning much.

The place did raise female eyebrows when I’d bring a date home.  “Did you just move in?”  No, my ex moved out and took everything.  “Oh.  When was that?”  Year and a half ago.

Being neither homosexual, nor metrosexual, nor very mature, I had a severe case of Male Tastelessness Disorder.

Now, you young men out there, don’t despair if you too suffer from MTD.  While there is no real cure, the good news is there is an effective treatment. 

Naturally, it’s women.  Women have more therapeutic applications than Aspirin and penicillin combined.

What worked for me can work for you.  A succession of women I dated combined to apply aggregate pressure for me to make my “wolf’s lair” more woman-friendly.  All I had to do was start to listen to their complaints.  And accusations of mental deficiency.  And ultimatums.

Here’s how it worked:  They would recommend that I purchase something.  I would purchase that thing and bring it to my condo.

Soon I had:

·       Furniture.

·       Lamps.  (I don’t know if women are afraid of the dark, but they seem to spend a lot of time worrying about lighting.)

·       Things on the walls.  (What do you call them…?  Right, paintings.)

·       Plates, glasses, silverware, pots, pans and other things useful to the preparation and consumption of food and beverage.

·       Hand towels in the bathrooms.

·       Hand soap in the kitchen (Apparently, women don’t like using dish detergent on their skin.)

·       A proper bed (I was told this would further enhance evening activities, which was a persuasive argument for me.)

·       Store-bought shampoo and conditioner (Women weren’t impressed by my wide selection of hotel freebies from diverse cities and countries.)

·       Those little pillows you put on the couch, that are too small to be of any use, but women like seeing them there.

Now I had something.  No longer was I bringing dates home to an empty cave.  Instead, my bachelor pad was a warm, inviting place that women believed (incorrectly) reflected my personality, my panache and my eye for detail.

My pad had become more than a place to go be wicked for a few hours, loud, joyous noises echoing through the barren space.  Now it was somewhere to go for the wickedness, but to stay for the comfort.

Please note, the “staying” part may be more welcome with some guests than with others.  You follow me, right?  Good.  You’re on your own with that bit.