My family is a hockey family. And a football family. And a baseball and basketball and NASCAR family. Somehow I wound up being just a football girl. My sister wound up being just a hockey girl. But we’ve each endured enough of one another’s sport of choice to get the basics down. Or so I thought until last winter when we were watching an NFC playoff game at my parent’s house. My sister looked up from texting and grimaced at the screen.
“Oh. My. God,” she said. “Are they wearing fanny packs?”
We all teased her about that for… well, we actually still tease her about it. Not that I have any room to talk. My boyfriend corrects me all the time when we watch baseball and I refer to the runs as points. Now, I don’t think that’s a big deal because in theory the runs are points. Hand warmers are not, in theory or otherwise, fanny packs. Right?
I blame it on my mom. She refuses to call anything by its proper name. There is no excuse for a woman married over 25 years to a civil engineer to refer to a back hoe as a “digger.”
I don’t expect the average man to know the difference between a cruet and crudités, I certainly wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t know what a dust ruffle was and I wouldn’t dare ask him to separate an egg (“Huh? Separate it from what?”). Yet, a surefire way to completely flabbergast a man is to tell him you have no idea how differentials work or how many cylinders your car has. Not knowing stuff like this is apparently unforgivable.
It’s not that I couldn’t understand some of these things if I tried. It’s just that I really have no interest or practical reason for knowing some of this stuff. As long as my car runs, I don’t care how it all really works. Why should I learn how to put the closet door back on the track if I have you to handle it? And if every time I try to use the charcoal grill you’re going to critique and “show me the right way,” I’ll never get the whole process down – and, yes, it is kind of complicated. Oh, and I really just prefer to go on thinking the TV and internet run by magical complicated processes that no one, not even Bill Gates, really understands.
So let’s make a deal: You can use the terms yoga and Pilates interchangeably and I can keep calling the glute isolator the “pushy uppie machine”.