I have a question.
But you wouldn’t know it. That’s because my adult male brain has apparently decided to replace the emotions associated with “asking a stranger a question” with those of “balancing on the antenna of the Empire State Building.”
I’m not talking about cliche questions that men have trouble asking, like “Where is the carburetor?” or “What is the carburetor?”
I’m talking about simple inquiries that even the most cold-hearted Scrinch (equal parts Scrooge and Grinch) would be happy to answer, like “Do you have the time?” or “Hello?”
Allow me to finger paint you a scenario. The other day, Wife and I were in the meat aisle of the grocery store looking for ground sirloin, because I was planning on making sirloin burgers, and you need ground sirloin to make sirloin burgers. [takes deep breath]
Since this particular grocery store did not appear to carry ground sirloin, I was about to settle for making my sirloin burgers out of mashed up hot dogs, when Wife dropped the Q Bomb. “Why don’t you just ask someone?”
While my nervous system attempted to reboot, Wife approached one of the butchers and assumed the identity of Dr. Wife, Question Woman.
And just as twin Apple symbols appeared behind my retinas and my vision returned, the butcher reappeared with two pounds of freshly ground sirloin. Because, I guess, butchers are really good at turning meat into smaller meat.
Now, who would like a sirloin burger? (Progress!)