Because I’m a guy, I must hold the television remote control in my hand while I watch TV. If the thing has been misplaced, I’ll miss a whole show looking for it, though one time I was able to survive by holding a calculator.
Because I’m a guy, when I lock my keys in the car I will fiddle with a wire clothes hanger and ignore your suggestions that we call a road service until long after hypothermia has set in.
Oh, and when the car isn’t running very well, I will pop the hood and stare at the engine as if I know what I’m looking at. If another guy shows up, one of us will say to the other, “I used to be able to fix these things, but now with all these computers and everything, I wouldn’t know where to start.” We will then drink beer.
Because I’m a guy, when I catch a cold I need someone to bring me soup and take care of me while I lie in bed and moan. You never get as sick as I do, so for you this isn’t an issue.
Because I’m a guy, I can be relied upon to purchase basic groceries at the store, like milk or bread. I cannot be expected to find exotic items like “cumin” or “tofu.” For all I know these are the same thing. And never, under any circumstances, expect me to pick up anything for which “feminine hygiene product” is a euphemism.
Because I’m a guy, when one of our appliances stops working I will insist on taking it apart — despite evidence that this will just cost me twice as much once the repair person gets here and has to put it back together.
Because I’m a guy, I don’t think we’re all that lost, and no, I don’t think we should stop and ask someone. Why would you listen to a complete stranger — how the heck could HE know where we’re going?
Because I’m a guy, there is no need to ask me what I’m thinking about. The answer is always either sex or football, though I have to make up something else when you ask, so don’t.
Because I’m a guy, I do not want to visit your mother, or have your mother come visit us, or talk to her when she calls, or think about her any more than I have to. Whatever you got her for Mother’s Day is okay, I don’t need to see it. Did you remember to pick up something for my mom, too?
Because I’m a guy, I am capable of announcing, “one more beer and I really have to go,” and mean it every single time I say it, even when it gets to the point that the one bar closes and my buddies and I have to go hunt down another. I will find it increasingly hilarious to have my pals call you to tell you I’ll be home soon, and no, I don’t understand why you threw all my clothes into the front yard. What’s the connection?
Because I’m a guy, you don’t have to ask me if I liked the movie. Chances are, if you’re crying at the end of it, I didn’t.
Because I’m a guy, yes, I have to turn up the radio when Bruce Springsteen or The Doors comes on, and then, yes, I have to tell you every single time about how Bruce had his picture on the cover of Time and Newsweek the same day, or how Jim Morrison is buried in Paris and everyone visits his grave. Please do not behave as if you do not find this fascinating.
Because I’m a guy, I think what you’re wearing is fine. I thought what you were wearing five minutes ago was fine, too. Either pair of shoes is fine. With the belt or without it looks fine. Your hair is fine. You look fine. Can we just go now?
Because I’m a guy and this is, after all, the new millenium, I will share equally in the housework. You do the laundry, the cooking, the cleaning and the dishes. I’ll do the rest.