Better than a sharp stick in the eye

Chronicle Media

Paul Sassone

It’s better than a sharp stick in the eye.

You’ve heard the expression. But it’s not necessarily true.

I know something about sharp sticks in the eye. Every few months I visit my retinologist, who puts a sharp stick in my eye. Actually, he injects medicine directly into my left eyeball to (so far successfully) preserve my sight in that eye.

“Oo!” “Oh!” “Ugh!” “Yuck!” is how most people respond when I tell them this, “I couldn’t stand having something stuck in my eye!”

Doesn’t bother me any more. You get used to things.
I mention this so you won’t think I’m some kind of scaredy cat unusually susceptible to fear.

What does scare me is when those little lights start popping up on my car’s dashboard.

Oh, lord. Something is wrong with the car. That light that just snapped on means I must immerse myself in something I know nothing about, something that makes me feel inadequate and not the equal of other men.

Men are supposed to know about cars. It’s in the Male Manual.

But I don’t know anything about cars. Never have. As a teenager I pretended interest. I could even tell you one car from another.

But it was all an act. I didn’t care about horsepower and hemis or Hollywood mufflers. I was living a lie. I’d watch my friends working on their dad’s car. They’d be all dirty and happy.

In despair to be like all other teenage boys, I even took a general shop class in high school in hopes it would make me a real, car-crazy man. The course consisted of six weeks of auto theory, printing, carpentry and building an electric motor. All good, manly stuff.

What I got from the class was four ways in which to be inadeqaute in macho pursuits.
And so I became resigned to being one of those people who must rely on others to fix his broken car. And thus I have gone through life in fear, fear of those little dashboard lights, fear that I would have to talk to an auto mechanic — a guy who knows what I should (but don’t)
know.

For, no matter how friendly, how honest the mechanic is I am humiliated. I don’t know what I’m asking and he knows I don’t know.

All I want is to get my car repaired as fast as possible so I can go back to hiding my inadequacy from the world.

Well, three days ago the light went on. I was nauseous for two days of those days before I screwed my courage to the sticking place and took the car in.

Turns out a taillight had gone out. A new bulb cost $14.95. Not bad.

Better than a sharp stick in the eye.

But deep inside I knew that a real man would have been able to replace that bulb himself.

–Better than a sharp stick in the eye–