Days of Thunder
October 29, 2006 – 2:11 pm |
For all my constant consideration of gender roles and stereotypes, I do actually believe there are inherent differences between the sexes. Men and women differ in our manner and approach to things. We view the world differently. We accomplish tasks differently. Take the job of maneuvering a grocery cart, for example.
Yesterday, we made a family trip to our local SuperTarget. We needed groceries, underwear, the latest Jennifer Weiner and Vince Flynn novels, a Gameboy DS, an electric guitar, a new men’s suit and 10W-40 motor oil. (Actually we only needed Halloween candy and milk, but had we left with all of those other things and more, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised. That’s the beautiful genius of Target.)
I choose SuperTarget over the competition for a variety of reasons. But, unsurprisingly, I am primarily motivated by the carts – fabulous new carts with ample seating for three small children.Of course, maneuvering a cart large enough to seat a family of five and accommodate groceries, takes an approach.
My approach is to push the cart gently through the aisles, staying on the right side, reminding the children to keep their arms and bodies in the vehicle, yielding to little old ladies on their larks. I approach the task slowly, methodically, conscientiously.
My husband’s approach differs. When we arrived at Target, we grabbed the first big cart we came across in the parking lot. I loaded the kids, and he assumed the cart-pushing position.
“Do you want me to push?” I inquired hopefully.
“No, I’ve got it.”
We loaded up the children, and he was off at a run through the parking lot.
“Wee!!” The kids shrieked with glee.
Dad’s approach is way more fun.
It was Saturday. So it was busy. When we got inside he started delegating: “You get the milk. I’ll get the Halloween candy.” He took a sharp left to the candy, slightly misjudging the length of the cart, narrowly missed an elderly gentleman with a bag of wheat bread, and sent one child swaying to the right and almost sliding into the bags of orange M&Ms.
Dad’s approach is about speed.
When I returned with my gallon of 1 percent (and the diapers, razors, and paper towels I realized I needed en route) they were driving in circles around the candy, waiting for me. “Some people are terrible about navigating in here,” my husband observed.
“Yes, these people are called dads, and they are only at the store on Saturdays,” I muttered under my breath.
We took a right turn down the main aisle toward the checkout lanes and found ourselves slightly behind another dad with a big cart full of kids. Both dads, with heads down and ballcaps pulled over their eyes, were aiming toward the one remaining open lane. The race was on.
My husband took the outside, sped up and passed the other dad, narrowly beating him to lane 12. As they squeezed past, my son’s elbow brushed the other cart.
“Ow, dad!” my son exclaimed. “Be careful. You bumped them.”
“I did not bump them,” my husband replied. “I rubbed them. And Rubbin’, son, is racin’. Rubbin’s racin’.”
Like I said – Men and women. Not the same.