For a number of years, I have gotten used to people assigning me the badge of metrosexual. I've even come to take some small amount of pride in the label—if only because they didn't think I was gay (not that there's anything wrong with that!).

As of today, I have admitted defeat in my metrosexual career. We have hired a cleaner.

That's right; I have a cleaner. Me. The sensitive guy who's got it together. I can't clean my own toilet.

Now I could tell you that it's because I'm so incredibly busy being a successful man about town, that Jess and I must attend just so dreadfully many social engagements, that our home is simply that dim, dusty retreat that we keep for those few times when our nonstop schedules allow for a moment's rest. Myeees. I could tell you that, but you'd see right through it, wouldn't you?

Closer to the truth is that I can't tear my steadily growing buttocks off the sofa, where I sit for hours on end cuddling my girlfriend and watching DVDs of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine—season one. (Even the trekkies just recoiled in disgust.)

I have failed my mother, whose gentle tutelage in the domestic arts has come to naught. Dirty dishes shift in the sink, while clinging fragments of last week's taco salad surreptitiously pulsate toward basic language skills.

The odd thing is, when I told her we'd be hiring a cleaner, mom didn't seem to mind. On the contrary, rather than a strangled sob of bitter disapointment, she actually brightened at the news and asked eagerly for details. I could almost hear her thinking, "Maybe next time we visit Kevin we won't have to get a hotel room!"

In fact, not a single person I've mentioned this to has given me the sad, pitying gaze I keep expecting. Could it be that having a house cleaner is a status symbol? Could it be that I have actually graduated into the ranks of the social elite who don't know where their vacuum is kept?

I wonder if I can get her to make me breakfast in bed.