MAS -- Male Answer Syndrome*
May 21, 2001
To answer a question:
"I don't know." is not an option for the male of the
human species. Ask any guy -- from a physicist to a politician to a construction
worker -- a question about anything, on any subject, and you'll get an answer. It doesn't matter if it's
true, as long as
it sounds factual. Is it evolution or ego?
Here's one man's story.
"You have an
answer for everything," said a former girlfriend. "Is there anything
you don't know?"
I was flattered.
"Sometimes I think you
just make it up," she added.
Egad. Was it just a stab in
the dark, or did she know?
It seems most men respond to
any query with an authoritative answer, whether or not they have the foggiest
idea of what they are talking about.
Both tendencies seem to be tied to some primal necessity to dominate the
herd and impress a potential mate, like those strutting puffins, or
pheasants who fluff their colorized feathers. Bearing
this evolutionary yoke, most males do not interpret a question as an attempt to
share knowledge, but rather, as a challenge to their authority.
Pity us modern guys who must
adapt to the staggering expectations of a complex world that rightly sees women
as intellectual equals. When we communicate at this level, we resort to spraying
facts like random shotgun blasts.
Star Trek™ Paramount Pictures
Maybe MAS? When Mr. Spock rounded off to the nearest
ten-thousandth,
did anybody ever bother to check his calculations?
For example: A
representative he-human, we shall call him 'me,' is assailed by his dinner date
with a question – "But why should the government pay farmers not to
grow beets?" she asks. (It's true; I'm desperate enough to date
Republicans.)
The gauntlet has been
thrown. Under the merciless demand of natural selection, I cannot appear
defenseless in my ignorance of beet subsidies. I have to respond using my
available knowledge, none of which involves beets.
Having no idea how to work in the
non-beets, I grope for opening generalities I dredge my mind, somehow come up
with "farm stuff" and have a flashback from a third-grade filmstrip
about locust control. Too bad I can't use that subject –
yet.
Knowing
that complexity is really many simple ideas stuffed into a conceptual phone
booth, I start stuffing, buying time with the politician's standard, "It's
important to remember," my voice is steady and authoritative:
“Agricultural subsidies are more complicated than you'd think."
Keep it moving. Words,
phrases, sentence particles swirl to the surface: "You see, due to a
warming climate, and…uh...cyclical
trade imbalances – not to mention the chronic...uh....inflationary…deficit
spending of the…uh…Nebraska legislature... culminating in a total failure of – locust control." I pause, take a breath,
"Now, where was I?"
Hoping the quiver in my
throat is not affecting my authoritative tone, I continue: "Ah yes, you
see…uh…around the 1800s…er, after the Grange…which was originally
organized…uh…to schedule hoe-downs…grew powerful…
I feel panic setting in.
Free-floating factoids effervesce – gleaned from every college and high school
lecture that ever mentioned the word "agriculture,” and even
from a dip into misty recollections of grade school
picture charts, Romper Room and Mr. Greenjeans’ baby animal farm songs. Quickly retrenching, I sort facts and fire: "Special
regional interests…have conspired to control...uh…actually warp…er...the capital flow of profit incentives…"
My temples pulse with the
rush of blood, yet my challenger – I mean my date – hardly notices my struggle to recapitulate
the human survival epic. I gather
my wits – there's no turning back in mid-fact espousal.
To hesitate is to fail. Running
out of “How should I put its?”, “Let me preface that withs,”
and “You sees,” I feel a terrifying urge to blurt: "Okay! I
admit it! I never did understand farm subsidies."
The vision grips me in a primitive, naked fear. I desperately want to
drop to my knees, beg for maternal pity, then curl into fetal ball.
My years as a
member-in-good-standing of the XY Club pass before my eyes.
Delirium. A white light. In its glare, figures congeal into various male
archetypes hovering over a shivering form – The pathetic thing is me.
Worst case scenario: Cheers character
Cliff Clayborn was a chronic MAS sufferer.
"He admitted he didn't understand farm subsidies," remarks a
male passerby.
"To his date,"
observes my brother incredulously.
"In a public place," reports my father.
"I
understand he even wept," adds a former gym teacher.
The hellish vision spikes me
with adrenaline. Then it hits – Parity!
Of course! The core buzzword
on which to build an answer. It sounds authoritative, and although I don't
really know what it means, I can gamble that she probably doesn't either.
I sit up in my chair, lean
forward. A fluffed confidence
radiates across the table. "You see…uh…special regional interests…as
such…corrupted the crop-price subsidy system known as…parity…which
was enacted by Congress in the second half of the 19th…uh…or the first half
of the 20th century. Originally it was intended to pay farmers for not growing
beets…and other labor-intensive tubers…because many of them were working
themselves to death...uh…due to a
condition known as…uh…the Protestant work syndrome."
I bask in my own light.
"And it worked too,” I continue, my voice gaining strength. “You've
just got to ignore the corruption and the advantages accrued by various special
interests and look at the big picture in an historical perspective. It paved the
way for the…uh…the Green Revolution that made America the breadbasket of the
United States."
Territory firmly staked and
the possibility of a pesky follow-up query crushed under the leaden weight of
sheer verbiage, I ponder the miracle of evolution: To think, this answer was
assembled in mere seconds. There must be a special organ – perhaps the
mysterious pineal gland.
"That's not
parity," she says. “Isn’t
parity a system of regulating prices of farm commodities by government price
supports to provide farmers with the same purchasing power they had in a
selected base period?
I feel the first twist of my
long tailspin. The waiter appears with the desert menu.
He somehow looks bigger. I try to recapture ground – Ah ha! I can
create some ambiguity, while simultaneously devising a distraction, "Well,
of course parity means different things to different people …and you must try
the cheesecake…"
The snooty waiter sniffs,
"What kind? There are many
types you know."
"Well over 81,000 – if you include the Madagascar varieties,"
I reflexively blurt.
Growing distant, she calls for the check – and covers it. Apparently my date does not appreciate the evolutionary
imperative.
C'mon,
so what if verity suffers a bit? All guys can promise is to be socially
responsible and not abuse this impulse. When
they find themselves about to spout, "Of course the ancient Romans used
breath mints...", they should first be sure a true fact is not readily
available. Nature favors action over truth – it is not the answer, but the act
of answering that preserves the species.
* MAS is the clinical term for Pundititis.
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