On Being a Chick

Apparently I'm having identity issues lately, what with the age and gender posts. Expect one on what it's like to be white any day now.

So, I do like being a woman. Love the clothes, makeup, talking about emotions, blah blah. I haven’t had to deal with glass ceilings or discrimination or serious sexual harassment. I open my own jars, change tires, and I replaced my toilet once! With a broken ankle! (OK, Adri helped).

But in a few ways, men have it better. [disclaimer: the following are gross generalizations based on one woman's experience. Said woman's experience may not be typical of your results. This blog disclaims all responsibility from insult to readers who are superior to the author (and many men) in the areas described. ]. *

Men can go jogging at night without fear.
Men know which end up the batteries go without looking at the little plus and minus signs.
Men can put the tent up right first time.
Men don't get scared when they attach jumper cables because they think the car may blow up, even when they're certain they put them on the right terminals.
Men can move heavier things without help.
AND, men know things about cars and don't feel that they are constantly being ripped off by their mechanic.

I try to fake it. I usually talk to my brother before going to the mechanic, and have him tell me any lingo I need to know, and what questions to expect. However, I've been caught out at least once. I once delivered my carefully prepared spiel and then looked blank when the mechanic asked me how many cylinders I have (um, an even number…shall I risk a guess... 4? 8? Good grief, I’ve looked under the bonnet enough times. Why don’t I know?). I don't think for one minute that he needed to know. He was just testing me.

This is bothering me today, because I have a CAR ISSUE. About a month ago I had a little blowout, and what with bent rims and old tires, got a whole new set of both. After spending an amount of money that could have bought three of the yellow patent leather handbags I've been coveting lately, and probably shoes to match, I drove off with my new rims, which I still suspect may look a bit too pimped for my ride.

Then driving to choir practice a few nights ago, with a full car, some scary sounds started emanating from the rear right. It wasn't a wheel bearing. And that is where my female brain reaches its limit of diagnostic ability.

I took it to a mechanic, and they told me that the wheel and tire were the wrong size and were rubbing against the wheel well. Clearly the tyre company should have known this, right? Jerks.

I took it to the tyre company, and they took a look. The guy said things about damage to the side, and struts, and other car words. He said there was no problem with the wheel and the other mechanic didn't know what he was talking about. Then he mumbled something about looking into a different kind of tire and calling me back.

Now, if I were a man, I think I’d have a better chance of knowing whether or not he was being straight with me. Or, at least, I'd have a better chance of him THINKING I knew if he was being straight with me. As it was, I wanted to be assertive, but I wasn’t sure who to be assertive with.

So I called my brother. Guy brain. I started from the beginning, telling him there was a weird noise coming from the back. "That'll be the new tyre rubbing," he said immediately. OK, fine. He explained the tire issue to me in little words, he told me what to tell the tire guy, and that if he gives me any trouble, that he will come up to Salt Lake and "talk to him." (that sounds a bit like my brother is a mobster, but he's really not).

So, I guess the tire issue will get fixed, and it isn’t a big deal, and no-one will die. But I still hate dealing with mechanics.

* i.e. if you are a woman and way better than me and all men in dealing with cars and tents and jogging, and think I’m a sexist pig, don’t tell me. It’ll just make me feel bad about myself. And you know how emotional we women can get.