A Pulitzer prize-winning author said, in a book which I once read: “One cannot help admiring women for their ability to dismiss the evidence of their senses.”
I say to that: Thank the Lord! If women were not able to dismiss the evidence of their senses, then:
Car mechanics the world over would be buried beneath the avalanche of automotive repair work that would occur. Those sounds which ensue from the bowels of a car when a machine is in dire threat of casting its metal guts out would no longer be dismissed; those sounds would be heard; would no longer be treated by women as some friendly communication from The Machine Gods. Instead, those sounds would immediately be referred to the current Machine Guy, almost always a husband, who would then redeem himself by mounting a crusade to seek the cause.
Note here that by “friendly communication” from The Machine Gods, we are of course referring to that entire spectrum of squeaks, squeals, knocks, bangs, clanks, blinks, and assorted symptoms that various brakes, oil systems, drive trains, and miscellaneous moving parts make as they are torn asunder. Out of sight, out of mind, hmmm?
Him: “I just took your car to town. (Barely made it back, but to bring that up would unnecessarily throw a monkey wrench into getting lucky with romance anytime within the next lunar cycle.) Say, Hon, it seems to have quite a knock when it’s steered to the left (Quite a knock doesn’t do this justice; two cannonballs in a 55-gallon steel drum rolling downhill is closer.). Have you noticed that?”
Her: “Ummm, yeah, I did hear that a couple of weeks ago, but it quit making it.” (She’s at the kitchen counter. Supper time is coming. Good husbands don’t monkey around with The Machine Gods at meal time. Is he a good husband? We’ll find out.)
Him: (What can she possible mean—it quit!) “Dear, I’m dying to know—how did you get it to quit?”
Her: “Simple. I never turn left.” She giggles, as if he should have known this without asking. He’s so silly.
Him: “But how do you get to town?” (Town is left. True, it’s right at the end of the driveway, but left down at the main road. He beams blissfully at her, the best smile he has, a smile that says he’s proud of such a woman, who can figure stuff like this out so good. Inside, his stomach burns from the knowledge that she, by ignoring a message from The Machine Gods, has placed his afterlife in jeopardy, an afterlife which up till now he had pictured as a heavenly cross between the Indianapolis 500—where he would be a successful race driver—and Iron Ike’s Motor Repair—where local folks bring their cars in to be repaired and serviced, as soon as everyone has had as much coffee and leisurely conversation as they can possible absorb. All this is at risk, all his good mechanical deeds done so far in faithful pursuit of this idyllic next world in Heaven gone for naught.)
Her: “Simple. I turn right at the main road, away from town, turn right into The Yurho Brothers’ driveway, swing right around their drive around, cross the highway into their hay field, swing right in a circle, turn right onto the highway, and into town.” (She gives him a look. The look says: I’m going to dismiss the evidence of my senses here that seem to indicate you’re an idiot for not knowing how to do this, and continue loving the You that I’ve kind of made up.
Surely The Machine Gods are too busy to bless every dry wheel bearing, every squeaking disc brake, every clicking universal joint (whatever those are) and every low tire. She, however, knows that by cooperating with Them, They are happy with her. Stuff gets bad enough soon enough, it’ll get fixed then.)
Him: He knows when he’s licked. “When’s supper ready?”
Moral of the story: Were it not for women ignoring the evidence of their senses, the human race would number in the thousands instead of the billions and men would have to wash their own underpants.