3 posts tagged “men”

I have long observed in man (and by man I mean men, not mankind) a tendency to forget that we live in three-dimensional space.

Take, for example, the refrigerator.  If a man is looking for something -- let's say milk -- and it isn't located in the foremost plane of the fridge, the milk doesn't exist.  It doesn't matter if the milk is scarcely obscured by an insignificant object like a jar of Grey Poupon -- if it isn't immediately apparent like a full-grown elephant in the vast expanse of a savanna, its existence is called into question.

I have a working theory that this male dimensional challenge is what makes table surfaces preferable to drawers, gives counter tops more appeal than cupboards, and leaves crisper drawers forlorn like vestigial organs.  It also explains why chairs, sofas, and beds slowly evolve into valets and closets. 

Most perplexing to me is that some of these men have less trouble wrapping their heads around four-dimensional spacetime or multi-dimensional string theory than notions like behind, between, and inside.

Take, for example, my darling husband.  He's hands-down one of the smartest and most observant people I've ever met, or am ever likely to meet.  After several hours of reading, he peeled himself off the sofa and away from his book to hunt for his iPhone.  He hunted and hunted.  Many minutes later...

Him: Do you know where my phone is? 
Me:  No.  Why don't you call it?
Him: <dials>
Stage Left: <muffled ringing sounds coming from underneath the book he was just reading>

Ah, yes.  The phone was lost in yet another one of the many faces worn by the ever elusive third-dimension: under.

Why is it that men have this odd compulsion to A) cling to bar soap like grim death, and B) get it into such a state that it is no longer recognizable as bar soap?

You know how it goes.  A fresh, pristine bar of soap is lovingly placed in the soap dish.  You wonder why liquid soap from a pump dispenser isn't good enough, but you try to make concessions in the name of fairness.  At first, the bubbles cling to the crisp edges.  The perfect white rectangle reminds you of Dove commercials, full of smiling children and fluffy towels.

After a few days, the edges begin to round out... and soapy water starts to linger in the grooves of the soap dish.  Over time, the water-to-soap ratio shifts, and swirling, murky pools of mystery soap substance slowly take over the dish.  Eventually, the bubbles are replaced with a gooey film that hangs on the soap like an egg yolk, and the bar can barely hold its shape.  It clings desperately to life, but each use brings it one step closer to its demise.

Invariably, the man takes this opportunity to exploit the vulnerable state of the soap.  He squeezes it in his fist, making an irregularly-shaped lump with finger grooves in it.  It no longer resembles anything remotely like the happy white rectangle in the commercials.  It has become the Orc of soaps -- a perversion, an infernal art, a good idea gone terribly wrong.  And there the Orc Soap will sit, sadly displayed in an egg-yolked soap dish until you come along and replace it with his next hapless victim.

I love men.  I love them for all their stereotypically male idiosyncrasies, and for their resulting predictability.  Yes, I am generalizing... go ahead and be offended by it, world.  It doesn't make it any less true.  And women are no better.  Well, I mean, we are... but not because we don't have our quirks.

Because I know men, and my man in particular, I wasn't at all surprised when Richard told me that he intended to install my new Pioneer radio on his own.  I was equally unsurprised when he scoffed at my suggestion of taking it to Best Buy or wherever else and having them install it for like $40.  Clearly it's not a money thing, as he's willing to pay more than that to have someone else do our laundry.  He just wants the thrill of victory, and to proudly declare to himself and the world, "I am man.  I fix things with tools!"

Make no mistake... I have no fear about the technical aspects of this project.  I know that he's very smart and very capable.  Under normal circumstances I would worry about the resulting *ahem* aesthetics, but Richard is kinda meticulous about stuff like that. 

None of this changes the fact that after 2 hours I am still a hostage in my own home, and have no idea how everything will turn out or when this whole fun process of "doing it yourself" will be over.  Nor does it change the fact that Richard added the decidedly male touch of forgetting to remove the CDs from the old radio before disconnecting it.  Thankfully he also dropped "the hard screw" deep into the bowels of my dashboard at the very end of the install, so now he can just reconnect the old radio's power and rescue everything at once.

This is his idea of fun?  And I'm weird because I enjoy buying shoes?  Indeed.