Is it true that it is a “male thing” not to ask for directions?
I just find this whole situation hilarious, because I really thought it was just my husband’s problem. We could be in any city in the world and get lost. I would say, “Mike, pull over and ask those people for directions.” My husband would say, “No, no, we’ll find it. We’re in the right area.”
“How do you know, Michael? We’ve never been here before!”
Now, I’m very good at following directions, so when I am lost I figure it is a good idea to ask someone who lives in the area for help. Despite popular belief, GPS does not accurately work everywhere. I cannot tell you how many times my husband has gotten us lost somewhere in the South Bronx with no English-speaking person in sight. At that point, it was too late to ask for directions!
Michael’s favorite thing to say in these situations was, “Well, you’re never lost as long as you have a full tank of gas.” This used to annoy the hell out of me. I thought that not asking for directions was a trait particular to my husband.
Recently, I went to the firemen’s carnival in Orange with my trusted aide, John. After an amusing time watching my aide and the developmentally challenged man I look after ride the rides, a sudden summer rainstorm caught us outside.
When we finally got back in the van to leave, the police would only let us turn a certain way out of the parking lot. (Of course, it would be in the opposite direction from the way we came into the lot.) We were already running very late, and John had left his cell phone at my apartment. Of course, I don’t carry a cell phone, considering the fact that my hands are paralyzed.
I did not want to make John any later getting home to his new wife. So I said to him, “I think that the street we are on leads to Derby Avenue.”
We had just pulled into a parking lot to turn around, and I saw that there was a single car standing there. It was full of young suburban girls chattering on cell phones. I asked John, “Why don’t you ask those girls if this street leads to Derby Avenue?”
“No,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”
“John, we’re already late, and I don’t want to make you any later. If this road does go to Derby Avenue, which I think it does, it will take us home faster. If it doesn’t go to Derby Avenue, it will take us way out of our way. Let’s ask these ladies.”
John threw a fit: “This is enough! This is it! You know, I do have some pride. I’m not asking those girls. Look at them, they probably don’t know, either. We’ll look stupid. They’re on the phone, anyway.”
“John, wouldn’t it be more stupid if we took the wrong way and ended up wasting 20 more minutes?”
“Look, don’t ever say that I don’t have humility!” He stormed over to the car of girls and came back a minute later.
“Well?”
“Yes, this street leads to Derby Avenue.”
“John, during all the things that happened today — dealing with the police, the doctor, the carnival officials — you were my even-keeled, Reverend John. Why did asking directions disturb you?”
“Crystal, don’t you know that men don’t like asking for directions? It’s hormonal — it comes with testosterone! It means looking weak and ignorant.”
I was shocked. John is wonderful, ever-patient. Why did this well-educated, ordained man lose his mind because I asked him to ask for directions? It was not even directions per se, in this case, but confirmation. How big a deal is this?
Wondering if the resistance to asking for directions is really a “male thing,” or whether it is particular to my husband and my afternoon aide, I told my morning aide, Margaret, about it. “Oh, my God,” she said, laughing, “my husband refuses to ask for directions, too. ‘I’ll figure it out,’ he says, ‘Well try this way. We’ll find it eventually.’”
I am 53 years old, and I am finally learning a key difference between men and women. It really is true that men hate to lose face by asking for directions. Is this one of those cultural examples of how men are from Mars and women are from Venus? If you are lost, ask for help!
Crystal Emery is a New Haven writer, filmmaker and activist, who is also a quadriplegic.
Previous “Crystal Clear” columns:
• Crotch Gazing: The View From A Wheelchair
