Why Women Are Backseat Drivers
My first response was to laugh politely and shrug my shoulders, as we do when confronted with gender-oriented stereotypes. The male equivalent to this question would be, “Why do men have to buy power tools?” Not all men have to buy power tools, and not all women are back-seat drivers. Still, it is a stereotype we begin learning at the same time we learn that two and two make four.
So after giving the universally accepted response to this kind of question, I waited patiently for him to launch into a frustrated beratement of female passengers. To my surprise, this was not his intention. “No,” he said. “I really want to know. Why are women back-seat drivers?”
I was a bit taken aback, for I had never heard anyone ask this question expecting a serious answer. “I don’t know,” I replied. “Let me think about it, and I’ll get back to you.”
Over the next few days, his question, and the fact that he wanted an honest answer, bounced around in my head. I cannot pinpoint the exact moment it came to me, but suddenly, like an epiphany, the answer seemed clear. I believe I have found the explanation for this time-worn stereotype.
As a wife and mother, I have taken on certain responsibilities. One of my duties is the day-to-day safety of my family. I make certain high-traffic areas in the home are kept free of extension cords and stepladders, loaded handguns and cardboard boxes. I cook hamburger meat until it crunches and stuff leftovers into the fridge while my family is still at the table. I wash boxer shorts after only one wearing.
With the birth of my son came rounded corners on the lamp tables and plastic outlet coverings. I tugged and stretched all blankets and toys to find potential choking hazards. As my son grew, I made sure that the bleach and the aspirin were out of reach. I perfected the art of walking into a room and, in 30 seconds flat, identifying and categorizing potential danger. Everything in my environment is neatly compartmentalized in my mind as “safe” (pillows), “risky” (glass-topped tables), or “way too dangerous” (lit candles). Items may move from on category to another as the boy grows, but the filing system remains the same.
My point is, I have made it my job to control absolutely the surroundings of my family, as have other wives and mothers. How many times, guys, have you heard, “Don’t leave that knife on the counter!” or “Put that Super Glue away as soon as you are finished!” or “Don’t even think of bringing that mangy critter into this house!”? Before you can say, “Honey, look what I found,” it has been assessed, identified and filed, and the appropriate response is on its way out of her mouth.
So with these things in mind, imagine your wife in the passenger seat of an automobile barreling down the road at 25 mph. She has no control over any aspect of this environment. Everything is totally out of her hands, but the innate mechanisms are still there. Before the male brain can register the color red, the female brain has registered the color, categorized it as “way too dangerous,” and screamed “Stop!”
Just as women everywhere are absolutely convinced that we can reduce a child’s fever by running our hands softly through his hair, we are equally convinced that gripping the dashboard applies the brakes of a car remotely. I have no doubt that one day the laws of physics will uphold the direct relationship between the amount of pressure applied to the passenger-side floorboard and the amount of time it takes an automobile to come to a complete stop. And women everywhere know that a man’s peripheral vision fails to see the bicyclist on the sidewalk or the school bus in the adjacent parking lot.
Why do you think driver’s ed is taught almost universally by male football coaches? If I had to teach it, every 16-year-old in town would have a clinically diagnosable phobia of tractor-trailer rigs, moving motorcycles, and children not physically attached to an adult. Teenagers would be required to drive vehicles equipped with lawnmower engines and AM radios with one working speaker.
Female passengers are often more exhausted than male drivers at the end of a trip. This phenomenon is due to the fact that the constant exertion of mind-over-matter energy is quite tiring. So the next time you take a road trip with your wife, keep this in mind, fellows: by placing her in the passenger seat, you have activated the same biological drive that keeps your shaving cream stored in a different closet than the foaming carpet cleaner, and allows only rubber-backed floor mats in the bathroom. Instead of arguing over her back-seat driving, maybe you could thank her for not allowing you get food poisoning from last night’s hamburgers.
