TRUE CONFESSIONS
I don't understand how automobiles work.
There, I said it.
Yesterday, the service guy at the Toyota dealership tried to explain to me what the problem was with my car. The only word I recognized was "piston." I'm not saying that I UNDERSTOOD what role the piston played in the problem, but at least the word sounded familiar to me. Confession #2: I don't understand how pistons work.
I looked at Service Guy and nodded from time to time as if I comprehended his remarks. I even emitted "Uh-huh" on occasion, as if I were a therapist listening to a patient describe a crucial childhood experience. But the truth is, Service Guy could have said, "The splanger rod in the Clayborn plug has developed a de-looping problem, and that's draining energy from the mutton processor," and I still would have nodded knowingly.
Of course, there are some things about cars I do grasp. For example, I know that turning the ignition key "does something" that motivates the engine to wake up and stand at attention. But that's pretty much it. For me, "checking under the hood" of a vehicle makes about as much sense as gazing at a manuscript written in Farsi.
As a male, I am expected to understand cars. This is a cruel, sexist tradition. I am expected to care about things like horsepower and cylinders. "Have you got a 4-cylinder, Mike, or a 6, or perhaps an 8?" How in the hell am I supposed to know? And now that I think of it, what business is it of yours? That's between me and my vehicle. And what's a cylinder?
That's right, I don't understand cars. It feels good to be out of the closet.
I don't understand how automobiles work.
There, I said it.
Yesterday, the service guy at the Toyota dealership tried to explain to me what the problem was with my car. The only word I recognized was "piston." I'm not saying that I UNDERSTOOD what role the piston played in the problem, but at least the word sounded familiar to me. Confession #2: I don't understand how pistons work.
I looked at Service Guy and nodded from time to time as if I comprehended his remarks. I even emitted "Uh-huh" on occasion, as if I were a therapist listening to a patient describe a crucial childhood experience. But the truth is, Service Guy could have said, "The splanger rod in the Clayborn plug has developed a de-looping problem, and that's draining energy from the mutton processor," and I still would have nodded knowingly.
Of course, there are some things about cars I do grasp. For example, I know that turning the ignition key "does something" that motivates the engine to wake up and stand at attention. But that's pretty much it. For me, "checking under the hood" of a vehicle makes about as much sense as gazing at a manuscript written in Farsi.
As a male, I am expected to understand cars. This is a cruel, sexist tradition. I am expected to care about things like horsepower and cylinders. "Have you got a 4-cylinder, Mike, or a 6, or perhaps an 8?" How in the hell am I supposed to know? And now that I think of it, what business is it of yours? That's between me and my vehicle. And what's a cylinder?
That's right, I don't understand cars. It feels good to be out of the closet.
posted by Mike | 3:04 PM
1 Comments:
OK, Mike, you're off to a good start: You wrote that turning the ignition key "motivates" the engine. Now if you can just continue with that psychologist's conceit -- literary conceit, you know -- you ought to be able to understand your car as if it were another person.
And you know how easy that is.
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