Mixed Signals

Things are pretty clear cut when you're a kid. As a babe, our eyes are always wide open, trying to make sense of the world. As we get bigger, we have a chance to test out different things, mostly by putting them in our mouths or hanging onto them for dear life.

We were pretty smart then. We would taste dirt and for most of us, never have to taste it again, knowing it was not a good snack. Pointy things like a spruce tree branch looked cool, but after the first (or maybe second) grab, it would be clear that pointy looking things were, well, pointy and not fun to hold.

This is where things get confusing. After the spruce tree, our folks would take us to the doctor's office and he or she would bring out a needle (remember, we're still smart at this stage). We would struggle to stay away from the pointy thing but ultimately get jabbed in the arm or leg or if really unlucky, the backside. 

Then when we get home and reach for something else pointy, like the carving knife, and the parental unit will rush to stop us. Go figure.

It continues. Remember getting called to dinner, only to be banished to the bathroom to clean those filthy hands? Then having to go back and clean the backs of your hands as well, even though you're only going to use the front side to eat?

Image from jokeroo.com

Well. There you are at a backyard barbeque. You've gotten hold of a hotdog, just off the grill. As you're walking to glob on the ketchup and relish, you get bumped and your hotdog rolls off the bun and falls underneath the hedge. As you stand there feeling sorry for yourself (the lineup for hotdogs is a zillion people long), your Mom will come up, pick the hotdog out of the dirt, wipe it off on your t-shirt and tell you "A little dirt never hurt anyone!"

Then you get in trouble for wiping you hands on your shirt next time you're at the dinner table.

Parents want us to explore and find out all about the world around us, but when we bring back a toad or a garter snake or that cute little black cat with the white stripe on it's back, we get into big trouble.

It doesn't get any clearer as we grow up. When we enter school, girls excitedly ask us boys to play with them, but then make us sit around and talk like adults and have pretend tea parties with pretend food and drink. Play is football, soccer, marbles, and running as fast as we can into the loose chain link backstop and bouncing back to home plate.

It's not that we don't learn how to interpret some of these things. Dogs with their hackles raised and baring their teeth really does mean danger, even if the tail is wagging. We know that when there is a green flashing arrow under a red light, it is okay to make a left turn at an intersection. Men can figure it out.

image from rantinginannoyance.wordpress.com

Except with women. When women say they’re fine, we believe them. Then they get mad because men are insensitive. We hold a door open for them and the feminist in them gets angry, but if we don't open a door, we're boors. We let them know that we'll be out with the boys, the ladies say okay and when we get home, the locks are changed. We get a come-hither look, then get handed the garbage to take out.

I don't know about you, but I'm going to stick with the dogs, driving and chain link fences. It's safer.