Elaine, of Seinfeld fame, once noted – I’m paraphrasing now – while women are nature’s idea of works of art, men are more like the functional equivalent of jeeps. From an aesthetic perspective this may be a well-founded observation but, from a practical standpoint, I’ve realized in retirement that men can fall woefully short of that functional ideal when it comes to some of the most mundane tasks associated with the live-a-day world. My recent trip to the supermarket with my brother and his wife vividly illustrated this point.
The worldly experience of both my brother and I had not prepared us for our post-career reentries into the world of domestic life. He had been a career officer in the U.S. military where he had protected the country’s citizens from the godless communists in Korea and Vietnam, performed ambassadorial duties with foreign governments, and taught and trained the next generation of the country’s protectors. I had been an executive in a number of international corporations, managing large numbers of employees and making large amounts of money for my employers, while charting a relatively successful career.
It had become evident – if not to us, certainly to our wives – that the skills and knowledge that we had acquired and honed over the past several decades were ill-suited for the management of household tasks. They were just not sufficiently robust to enable us to master complex machinery such as microwave ovens and modern washers and dryers. (“Why, for crissake, wasn’t there just a simple ON and OFF buttons?”)
This deficit in our collective arsenal of survival skills was apparent in our efforts to navigate the formidable challenges presented by the local supermarket. Clearly, the hunter and gatherer instincts of our forebears had not been sufficiently transmitted or, if they had, they had atrophied due to non-use. Recognizing this deficit, my sister-in-law armed us with aids and advice for our trip to Hannaford’s to buy a supply of groceries. She also wisely limited our assignment to a small number of the simplest of tasks. In addition to the numeric limits she placed on our assignment, the utter simplicity of those tasks elevated the potential level of our success, thereby avoiding the embarrassment of failure and any resulting self-recrimination and loss of self-esteem.
When we entered the supermarket, we were given a written list of to do’s, while the shopper-in-chief assumed primary responsibility for the expedition. Big brother and I headed for our first stop, the deli. He, the alpha dog in charge; me, his wingman. Mission: a half pound of thinly sliced roast beef, a half-pound of Black Forest ham, and a quarter pound of Swiss cheese – a virtual culinary tour of the Alps and the Schwartzwald. The exercise seemed quite simple until the butcher asked, “how thinly sliced?” We huddled, falsely believing the two-heads adage. Coming up empty, we threw the choice back to the butcher. His “how about this” recommendation seemed reasonable and relieved us of the decision-making burden and provided us with a potential scapegoat.
Mission number one more or less accomplished, we proceeded to the bakery section. Objective: a loaf of peasant bread. The section contained a large wall full of various loaves of bread, literally several dozen. But no peasant bread! Searching franticly and moving loaves around to ensure that they didn’t obscure the prized object of our pursuit, we once again came up empty. Concerned that we would appear to be inept shoppers – after all, we weren’t completely confident about the thinness of the roast beef – we dared to step past the ‘verboten beyond this point’ sign and sought out the baker. Indignant at first that we had entered his sanctuary, he warmed to us when we explained our dilemma. He told us that they had discontinued baking peasant bread but that a loaf of sourdough would be an acceptable substitute. When we returned to the wall of bread to retrieve the sourdough, we discussed the possibility of asking the baker for a CYA note documenting the lack of peasant bread and his recommendation of the substitute. Although uneasy about our lack of a clear-cut success, we thought better of it reasoning that a forceful account was superior to mealy-mouthed explanation supported by a note from a stranger.
A bit shaken but unbowed, we proceeded to the last leg in our journey, the dairy section. Charged with the simple goal of acquiring a half-gallon of milk and a dozen eggs, a sense of confidence returned to our gait. Arriving at our destination, I located the container of milk as alpha dog secured a dozen large brown eggs. Finally, an unambiguous victory, the precise items designated in black and white on our instructions.
As my brother proceeded to open the egg container to ensure the contents weren’t damaged, a stranger arrived at his side. He was a slight fellow, five foot six and 60ish with wire glasses and the demeanor of an elementary school teacher. Quite self-assuredly, he advised us as if he was sharing a little-known secret. He leaned toward us, whispered out of the side of his mouth in a conspiratorial tone, “When you check the eggs, you have to turn each one to make sure they aren’t cracked on the bottom and stuck to the container.” He exuded a self-satisfied glow that suggested he believed he’d had shared a Rosetta Stone moment. As I looked past him, I saw a middle-aged woman who had witnesses this exchange. The look on her face reflected a combination disbelief and amusement. If there had been a thought balloon above her head, it would have indicated something like, “Neanderthals, Cro-Magnons or just garden variety cavemen?” Arguably, a generous assessment, considering that she had only witnessed the final leg of our shopping adventure.