NOT IN A MILLION YEARS
Why does it take a million sperm to fertilize one egg? They won’t ask for directions. Why do men never stop to ask for directions? Because they aren’t lost, they just don’t know where they are. As these classic jokes reveal, the male species seem to have a common aversion to asking for directions when they’re lost. And females seem to have a liking for making fun of this peculiarity every chance they get.
I can understand not wanting to admit that you’re lost, but what I don’t understand is the difference between losing your way and losing an object.
You would think the two things would bring out similar responses. Such is not the case. When a man loses an object he will scarcely lift a newspaper or open a drawer before asking a woman if she knows where the missing item is.
Last week it was the truck keys. Sounds classic until you consider the keys were for a truck that we parked in 1993. I believe the exact wording was,
“Where do we keep all the old keys?”
This implied that I was the sort of person who kept a jar or box on a shelf neatly labelled “Old Keys”. I am not that kind of person, though twice a year during spring and fall cleaning I vow that I am going to become that person, but it never happens. We’ve been together for 30 springs and 29 falls. By now you’d think he would realize what sort of woman he is going through life with.
Our conversation went something like this:
Me: “Old keys? For what?”
Him: “The old truck.”
Me: “What old truck?”
Him: “The gray GMC.”
He now starts opening and shutting drawers at random and vigorously shaking the catch-all bowls, which is my cue to launch into incredulous wife rant number 23.
“You’re looking for the keys for a truck parked at a place we moved from 11 years ago? How would I know where the keys are? Do you have any idea how ridiculous this is? How could you even think I would have a slightest clue as to where a set of keys are for a truck we haven’t started for over 16 years? I can’t even remember where I put the hand mixer and I use it three times a week. It would take me a million years to find those keys.”
He stops rummaging in the clay pot I keep leftover garden seeds in, sets it down, sighs and goes outside. And that’s when I remember where the keys are. Bottom right hand dresser drawer with his wool socks that itch too much and all the old day planners that we might need for reference one day. Like to find out if I asked him to pick up milk on the way home from work on May 14 1996.
I rush outside, waving the keys.
“Time sure flies,” he says, taking the keys. “You look great by the way.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A million years gone by and look at you. You don’t look a day over 45.”
“Very funny. You’re a regular one stooges.”
All this talk of organizing has reminded me that spring is coming. The next warm day I am flinging open the windows and scrubbing the house from top to bottom. But I am giving up on getting organized. If I can find a set of keys from 16 years ago, I’m doing better than I thought. Now if I could just figure out where I put the hand mixer . . .
Shannon McKinnon is a humour columnist from the Peace River country. You can read more of her writing online at www.shannonmckinnon.com
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