
Eight Things Men Don't Want You to Know They Don't Know
EN ARE EXPECTED to know everything. Oh, the pressure! Clearly this unreasonable
burden is at the bottom of male behaviors such as the refusal to ask directions and the claim to boatloads
of sexual experience. Recently we held a day-long conference entitled "The Mind of Today's Man: What the
Heck's in There?" Along our journey of discovery, we encouraged our male-only audience to, as we put it,
"Relax and Reveal" their most shame-based gaps in knowledge. We assured them that everything discussed in
the "Regis Room" at The Comfy Inn would remain strictly hush-hush. But wouldn't you know, we had our
fingers crossed. The result is not only this revelatory, if unethical, fly on the wall of the male brain,
but also a fairly disgusting metaphor.
The eight most embarrassing things men don't want you to know they don't know are:
- Not one man who attempted it could correctly spell menstruation. Many couldn't even listen to the
word being uttered without clapping their hands to their ears and wincing as though William Hung were
"singing."
- Men simply don't know how they feel about crop tops. Whereas bras elicit
unambiguous, positive emotions because they allow males to engage their manual dexterity in the service of
conquering both front and back hooks, men face unnerving ambivalence over a garment that can't be opened.
Crop tops symbolize the emotional conundrum. Men predictably shy from emotion, and have trouble spelling
conundrum.
- A woman's fresh haircut or color will go unnoticed by most men. Men
genetically are coded to scan the vast savannah before them, not cosmetic details that will reap little or
no food. Unfortunately, our savannah-scanning sapien will also reap little or no sex if he doesn't learn to
ask, "Did you just get your hair done?" once a month to be safe. Evolve, already.
- He
doesn't know your child's name. Whereas he's memorized the names of your dog, your bird, and your
16-year-old babysitter. Notice the next time you speak to your child: "Justin/Caitlin, (it's always Justin
or Caitlin, so what the problem is I'm not sure) get out of that mudhole this instant!" Observe that he
will immediately add somthing like, "Yeah, Justin/Caitlin, do what your mommy says." Then ask him what your
child's name is. Blank as Martha Stewart's phone logs.
- Most men really don't know what
women mean by "working on our relationship." And the only men who watch Oprah or Dr. Phil are those who
were tricked by their mates into appearing on said shows for a little mob humiliation. Men can see that
this phrase means a lot to you, because you've got that funny look on your face. (See 6.) But, honestly, if
you can't repaint it or extend it with lumber from Home Depot, what the heck else could you mean by
"working" on it??
- What's that funny look you're giving me again? men are asking en masse.
They don't know what it means, although women the world over give it pretty much the same way: one eye
squints a little more than the other, and the lips purse slightly. But men don't dare ask what it means,
because then they get the followup look, the meaning of which, they are proud to say, they know very well.
It means they're dead meat until they apologize for what they did/said.
- But what did I
do/say?? would be their next question, if they weren't so ashamed of their ignorance on this recurring
matter. It seems from our conferee's uniform responses that they really don't know how they repeatedly
manage to inspire the ire of women's facial muscles. Although touchingly forthright, their collective
confession struck our female questionners as so pathetic that the women involuntarily squinted one eye a
little more than the other. Therefore,
- There is no number eight. We really tried to get
it for you: we mocked the men and told them we knew what number eight was anyway, so they might as well
just come out with it, but nothing doing. We suspect it has something to do with cosmetics, but more
guineaconference attendeesare needed to confirm our theory. Meanwhile, ladies, inventory your
lipsticks.
© 2004 Kate Heidel