Men are my favorite sex. I like them--from the littlest guy to the elderly sage.
And most of the time we speak the same language.
Note: I said most of the time. Occasionally--thankfully only occasionally--we face each other across the chasm of "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus."
I've already said how much I dislike dealing with car problems. I inevitably fall back on asking the men of my life for help, which in this case provided me with unwanted advice.
"It's time to think about buying a new car."
I don't WANT a new car. I LOVE this one. It's been trustworthy, and we've had a lot of great adventures together. I can glance over and see that one little spot on the window where Lucy, my border collie, used to press her nose. She's been gone for two years, but I still wash around that spot when I clean the passenger side of the windshield so there are five little nose prints one on top of the other in a space about three inches wide.
Which is why when the windshield recently got a crack, I pretended to be too busy to take care of it despite repeated encouragement to "Call the insurance company."
And, of course, when I finally admitted what was going on--in the middle of talking about the current automotive issue--the response of "That's silly and superstitious" did nothing to further the discussion.
I adore men. I really, really do. I especially adore this one. However, when I'm looking for emotional reassurance, it's hard when I get back cold, hard logic. I need to grieve for just a little while before I step over the corpse and move on. The female friend I told immediately got it. She reflected back, "Oh, I know how much you love that car."
In a couple of days, I'll be ready to acknowledge the truth of what he's said. Tonight I didn't want to FIX the problem; I just wanted a hug.