My husband's man-cave is nothing like I expected
Remember Meerkat Manor? That’s my spare room right now.
A shed, with a dartboard and a TV stuck on endless Sydney Roosters replays. Maybe a fridge full of beer, too.
Man, was I wrong.
Turns out my vision was missing one key detail: meerkats.
Remember Meerkat Manor? That’s my spare room right now.
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Is 32 too young for a midlife crisis?
My husband has 350 meerkats. Not real ones, fortunately. I’m talking about the garden gnome variety.
Only he doesn’t collect and pop them in the flowerbeds. Nah. He pops them on a damn shelf.
At first, it was just one or two. Cute little guys in novelty costumes. Santa meerkat, Batman meerkat, Ninja meerkat. I thought, “Alright, kitschy, but harmless.”
Then one day I realised this joke isn’t funny anymore. The dog and two cats were no longer the only animals of concern.
I’m just awaiting the day they compare the market for insurance. Can you get insurance for sanity? Could they recommend a premium?
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You could pop a serial killer in there and guarantee he’d cave to interrogation in 50 seconds flat under the pressure of all those beady eyes.
It’s like walking into a furry parliament. There’s a meerkat in scrubs ready to perform surgery, one in a tutu stretching at the barre, and about three different Harry Potters.
The other day, my husband informed me, “I’m considering an organisation system. Grouping them. Like all the Halloween ones, then all the Christmas ones.”
To which I replied: “I need to write this down. This is an article.”
Because surely this is the case of the youngest midlife crisis known to exist?
He’s always been a collector. Before this it was LEGO.
That was easier to justify. We have a son who’d eventually grow up to drive around a plastic prime mover.
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This bizarre little army will soon meet the demise of the garage
But the other day when I walked in on my son, who’d gathered the porcelain creatures into a mini circle and was giving them a sermon (he literally stood there and waved ‘hello guys’ with his chubby two-year-old hands), I hoped two things:
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Perhaps this will teach him about community and imagination.
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I hope he takes after me... for his future partner’s sake.
Our loved ones say it’s just my husband’s personality on display. The man known for cheating at Monopoly and hair that will never be tamed.
Frankly, it’s my fault for not envisioning his man-cave more accurately.
When Mum informed me the other day he has 40 more on the way from some old lady named Doris off Facebook Marketplace, my eye roll may have caused medical concerns. Specsavers would be keen to check.
But it also made me realise something: at least this bizarre little army brings him joy.
Still, once baby number two comes along, Meerkat Manor is getting bulldozed. Or at least relocated to the garage.
That room will become a fairy princess palace or dinosaur dream house… with maybe one meerkat allowed to stand guard.
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Originally published as My husband's man-cave is nothing like I expected
