Finding Direction: The Wind Vane Chronicles

[Note: I found this piece the other day that I wrote years ago when I was in college, a good while before Tom and I were married, but it's just as applicable today. Tom certainly hasn't changed, anyway, nor have the other guys I talk about. What do you think about the premise?]

The true test of manhood in the minds of many men in this country, it appears to me, centers around a man’s ability to work on his car. Men may not say this, but that’s how they act.

They get so uptight about it. They become so defensive and really get their dander up if anyone dare suggest they lack mechanical genius or even aptitude toward such.

Some of the most insecure men I know do not doubt their sex appeal with women at all but fall apart as males when the car won’t start. They mumble sadly, “My dad never taught me how to work on a car,” as if, “I’m not a real man because I’m not a good auto mechanic.”

Recently a friend’s (Tom’s) car wouldn’t start. He spent the whole day Sunday under the hood and on the ground under his car taking the starter apart and monkeying with various other parts that seemed likely culprits. He had no earthly idea what was wrong, but surmised it was “some sort of electrical problem.”

He admitted he knew nothing about cars and could care less, but refused to ask for help, telling me, “A man has to handle these things himself. I want to know I’ve exhausted every angle first – alone.”

He felt good about it because he had gotten so black and dirty and greasy, even though he hadn’t accomplished anything. This was late on Sunday night and he needed the car to go to work the next morning, but he was going to continue to work on the car himself until something magic happened, I guess, and it started running again.

I found out later the car’s problem was a loose battery cable connection.

Men are so illogical about it all. Women don’t have trouble with this. I’m not too proud to ask for help when my stupid car breaks down – which is about once a week, lately.

I do have to admit I wasn’t always like this, though. I went through my independent “I can take care of the car myself” period. It’s just that women learn from their mistakes and go on.

The last car problem I tried to repair myself convinced me, thanks to some of my “pseudo-mechanic” male friends.

One of my headlights burned out.

So this guy (Tom, again) looked at the front of my car and even had another guy look at it and both proclaimed “It’s not hard to change a headlight, for goodness sakes. Go buy a new one and you should be able to replace it without any problem. Here’s what you do . . . ”

All I needed was 10 minutes and a Phillips head screwdriver, they promised. They somehow implied they wouldn’t mind helping me, but it really was beneath their talent, it was such a simple job. Even a woman could do this.

I went and bought the headlight and thirty minutes later, while I was out in the driveway trying every way I could think of to retrieve the dumb screws from under the front chrome piece around the headlights (and trying desperately to maintain control), the phone rang.

It was my insurance agent (a long time close church friend). I knew I was going to cry and was mad at myself. But, I blubbered out what I was doing and he said in amazement, “Gee, Dee Ann. I didn’t know you were so mechanically minded.”

“Obviously, I’m not,” I said, and hung up to peals of laughter. It wasn’t funny.

I did the only sane thing. I drove to the nearest garage and asked for help. The boy there was more than helpful.

He showed me that the piece of chrome should be removed, too, which not only made getting the new headlight in place easier (did I mention it was hanging out by some wires?), but also facilitated the extraction of the screws (and a few hairpins and other paraphernalia I had lost in the battle). He didn’t even charge me.

By the time I got back home I was regaining control again when 10-minute Tom called.

“I thought you said this was easy,” I said. “I did what you showed me and it was wrong. You can’t imagine what I’ve been through.”

“Oh,” he said meekly. “Well, I didn’t know. I’ve never actually done it myself. But, for a man it shouldn’t take more than 10 minutes, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” I said.

When my car broke down the next week and I couldn’t make it to school, I did the only logical thing. I started crying and drove the sputtering thing to the nearest garage.

It now works much better. And, not only did I get my car fixed, I also got a ride home while they were working on it and got a break on my bill because grown men can’t stand to see women cry and will do anything to help.

And it all only took me 10 minutes.