I’m not all doom and gloom about American manhood — I think the appeal is timeless, and never really goes away no matter how many waifish effeminate teens dominate the pop culture scene — but this story in the Wall Street Journal today has me reconsidering my stubborn optimism. It’s from a fluffy little piece on the tensions of sharing a bed in the practical sense:
When 26-year-old Jackie Vertuccio and her boyfriend moved into their first apartment together a few months ago, she says they worried about how they’d adjust to actually sleeping together, night after night.
According to Ms. Vertuccio, her boyfriend likes to go to bed early and wake up late. (She’s the opposite.) She likes to cuddle. (He says it’s too hot in the summer to do that.) And then there’s “Pinky,” the terry cloth blanket that her boyfriend has had since he was a child. Ms. Vertuccio thinks it needs to go.
Now, Ms. Vertuccio says the Queens, N.Y., couple has struck a compromise: He tries to sleep less and she tries to sleep more, so they can go to bed and wake up at the same time. There’s a summer ban on cuddling—and, in return, a winter ban on “Pinky.”
After stopping, re-reading this, and re-reading it again, I calmly set down my half-finished La Gloria, went to the bar, mixed my favorite drink (bourbon, neat), and drank.
Ye gods man. What an age.
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