The ultimate tribute to my familial status is stitched into couches.
My family loves a bargain, Mom loves a coupon, and somehow the ultimate card-up-the-sleeve in her travel log is to never ever ever give me a bed when we travel.
I’ve slept on couches in at least 4 states and 3 time zones, and not because I wanted to. Sounds a lot like a First World Problem, but the emotional, mental, and physical toll of sleeping on the couch is taxing.
Some smell like dirt, some smell like fresh linen, some scratch your back because people somehow track sand inside and onto the couch, and some smell like those towels at the gym. My favorite was the couch in Hocking Hills, Ohio, where the styrofoam filled pillows coupled nicely with the raccoon trapped inside the wall for a great night.
I should write a travel book on couches.
I complain a lot on here, but it’s not that bad. I channel a lot of stress from whatever, but a lot of it may just be the fact that I enjoy being lazy, but maybe also because I love my basement (as I’ve mentioned before).
I strongly believe a Man Cave is something essential to my sanity, and every man who has to deal with people that bother them at some point should have one.
First of all, the lighting: I can adjust the lights to however I want. Bright for whatever reason I’d want to see the creatures scurrying under the couch for my crumbs, or dark for sleepage.
As any 7th grade geologist knows, temperatures stay constant under the ground, and my Cave is no exception, staying at a frosty 56 degrees Fahrenheit (I made that up I have no clue, I just know its perfect for my Snuggie).
The TV is an obvious one, providing the entertainment and escape I need from a stressful day of being the last child.
Superman needed a Fortress of Solitude, so I’ve got a basement that pretty much keeps me comfortable and at hermit status when needed.