Cantankerously Yours
I Got Short-Changed on Genes
By Wendell Abern
Dear Readers,
This month I will be 82 years old. And for every one of those years, I have been criticized, bad-mouthed, ridiculed and belittled for everything from my appearance to my intelligence. And I have determined the reasons for all of this: abilities, talents and aptitudes the rest of you take for granted did not make it into my DNA genome.
To clarify, I was not born with:
The “Get It” Gene.
I never understand things that seem to be second nature to the rest of you.
When I went to my first high school dance, my date was the only one without a corsage. All the other guys seemed to know to get one for their dates.
When I was in the Navy, I didn’t know why I couldn’t wear brown loafers to inspection.
And when our chief barked out orders while marching us, I never understood one syllable. He’d shout, “Comp’ny, haddop HOP!” and everyone would do a right face while I did a forward march.
I’ll be 82 years old this month. And I still never “get” anything. I think it’s just a family trait that has no genetic roots.
My dad’s parents, for example, moved from Romania to Canada in 1897, and after two horrific icyblast winters, decided to move to warmer climes in the United States.
So they moved to Minneapolis.
The “Shopping” Gene.
I am a typical male. I need a shirt. I pick out a store. I go in, march to the men’s department, scout through my sizes until I find the right color. I pay and leave. Eight minutes.
Women shop intelligently. A woman needs a blouse, she picks out a store, enters and then ambles. She finds bargains. She spots sales. She saves money.
I know of only a few guys with a Shopping Gene. Without exception, every woman I know has one. My friend, Nancy, has three.
The “Running” Gene.
When I went to high school, all were required to take Physical Education (a euphemism for gym class) for four years. And pass certain tests each year. In freshman year, the guys had to take running tests.
In those days, no one had yet raced the 100-yard dash in less than ten seconds. As freshmen, we were required to run the 100-yard dash in 25 seconds or less. My friend Gibby ran it in eleven seconds flat, and was immediately conscripted onto the track team. I ran it in one minute, 22 seconds, and was immediately sent to the gym office.
“Are you even trying?” Mr. Hasan asked.
“Yes,” I huffed.
“Well, try again!”
“Don’t you offer Sex Education as an alternative?”
“Get back out there!”
I tried all semester. Best I ever did was 43 seconds.
“Let’s hope you’re better at long distances,” Mr. Hasan said, giving up on me after two months.
Back then, no one had yet cracked the four-minute mile. To pass, we had to run it in less than twelve minutes.
I lined up with all my friends, crouched properly, and took off when Mr. Hasan fired the starting pistol. When I finished in a little under four minutes, I ran proudly to Mr. Hasan and shouted, “I did it! I’m the world’s champion!”
“You only ran a quarter of a mile!” he yelled.
“You mean there’s more?”
“Why do you think your friends are still out there?”
I never did beat the twelve-minute mark. In fact, I was never able to run the entire mile. I barely passed Phys. Ed. that year.
The “Suave and Debonair” Gene.
I have always envied guys who seem to effortlessly charm their way into womens’ lives.
After I became a widower, I thought my lifelong experiences would have overcome the brash tendencies of my youth.
My first attempt at a Sam Smooth approach, at age 79, ended in disaster when I asked a bridge partner if I could interest her in a meaningless relationship.
Haven’t played with her since.
The “Mechanical” Gene.
Genetically, I suspect I am some kind of mutation.
Anyone who has read my column over the years is familiar with my mechanical ineptitude:
1 – The can opener I attached to the kitchen wall in our first married apartment. I hung it upside down.
2 – The bookcase I assembled to surprise my wife shortly after we bought our first home. The books were facing the wall.
3 – The home blood pressure unit I had to put together. My first reading came in at 526 over 38. “Wonderful,” my wife said. “I married a horse.”
It should come as no surprise that shortly after I brought home a shiny new, fully-equipped toolbox, my wife buried it in the backyard.
The “Technological” Gene.
I have a theory. Like all my theories, this one is supported by no facts or evidence whatsoever. Ergo, I make up my own statistics.
My theory states that the Technological Gene has only appeared in the last couple of centuries; that it is a natural evolutionary step that will take thousands of years to fully develop … and that only those who now possess a highly-advanced Mechanical Gene – approximately 11% of the population – get a serviceable technological gene.
The rest of us have to deal with technological advances that have occurred so rapidly they have spawned a whole new vocabulary. Our lives are crammed with terrifying words and phrases like “I-pad” and “apps.” And those of us without the Tech Gene don’t even know what “streaming” means any more.
I find myself surrounded, daily, by cellphones that are computers and friends with lightning-fast thumbs. The only way I am able to navigate my way through this hazy new world is by waking up each morning and telling myself it’s really still 1978, and the rest has all been a dream.
Cantankerously Yours,
Wendell Abern
Wendell Abern can be reached at dendyabern@gmail.com.
