The Real Reason Men Get Married

It's not for sex or romance. It's not for companionship. It's not for the cooking or the housekeeping. So why do men really get married? We need someone nearby to help us find our stuff.

We don't know where we put anything. We have no concept of filing. The typical male idea of organization is to drop something wherever it seems convenient, and then expect to remember later where that place was. That's all we know how to do. It's a genetic defect.

Comedian Jeff Allen tells the story of leaving his underwear in the middle of the bedroom floor. His wife was irritated by his sloppiness and asked him, "Is that your underwear on the floor?"

"It better be," he replied, "or I've got a few questions I want to ask you!"

It's a known scientific fact that women are more organized than men. Women can file and sort and store and compartmentalize and arrange and archive -- simultaneously! They are amazing creatures. Why shouldn't we of the hapless male persuasion take advantage of such naturally ingrained female talents?

When you're a kid, you've got mom around to find your stuff for you.

"Mom, where's my shoes? Mom, have you seen my skateboard? Mom, where is my cap? Mom, did I leave my belt in the living room?"

My sweet mom had four boys. I doubt the poor woman had a day in her adult life that she didn't spend an hour or more tracking down the possessions misplaced by her clueless sons.

I had two sisters. They were pretty good at finding stuff, too. Except part of the time they were mad at us for teasing them or whatever, and then they would withhold their intel. Even my sainted mother, with her seemingly boundless patience, would occasionally become exasperated with us and erupt with the spine-chilling phrase that every boy dreads hearing: "It's wherever you put it!"

Wherever I put it? If I knew where I put it, I wouldn't have asked you. (Readers take note: never say that out loud. Trust me on this.)

There are some mornings that I know I would never make it out the front door if Peggy wasn't scurrying around the house finding all my lost stuff. It amazes me how those things travel around. Sometimes I actually suspect that she moves them behind my back just to set me off.

If she leaves for work before I do, I'm in big trouble. Last week I spent 15 minutes -- 15 MINUTES! -- trying to find my keys. I looked in all the usual spots. I retraced every step I had made that morning. I scanned my memory and double-checked all the possible drop zones. I was getting so frustrated I almost said, "Poop!"

I had finally given up when I happened to look down on the bed. There were my keys laying next to my pillow. How did they get on the bed? I didn't remember putting them there. I couldn't help but wonder if Peggy was laughing all the way into town wondering how long it would take me to find them. Those kinds of crazy thoughts go through a man's mind when he can't find his stuff.

Personally, I am drowning in stuff. Like most Americans, I have way more stuff than I know what to do with. I have stuff I haven't seen for years. I know it's around here somewhere, and as soon as Peggy has some extra time, I'm going to ask her to find it for me.

After all, that's why I got married in the first place.