A Car By Any Other Name
Every now and then I fool myself into thinking that I understand women. I learn a few of their girl-rules and think I’ve got them all figured out: ” Let’s see, they can’t go to the bathroom alone, they’ll wear painful shoes if they match their purse. Yep, I’ve cracked the code.” But in the midst of this short-lived confidence, I inevitably stumble across a new female foible that proves once again that I just don’t get it. My most recent humbling revelation came when a young woman nonchalantly asked me the name of my car. I’ll pause here for emphasis…She wanted to know the name…of my car. Houston we have a problem. Somehow in my haphazard analysis of the female psyche, I failed to factor in the car-naming impulse. And so once again I find myself vexed and perplexed as I try to figure out the logic behind yet another gender idiosyncrasy.
First off, all the girls I’ve talked to get major creativity points for the way they’ve christened their rides. Some women derived a name from their car’s color (such as Bluebell, Goldilocks, or Burgundy). Another clever method was altering the make of the car (thus her Tracer becomes Tracy). Some women even find names obvious in their license plates (such as my own mother who apparently refers to her car as Emma, after the E-M-A found in the middle of her plate number). But cleverness aside, that cars get proper names at all is totally inexplicable to me. Who decided to start doing this? Was there some memo sent out? Did they discuss it at the last meeting? I’m amazed by the seemingly unspoken consensus that the females of our species share. It’s as remarkable to me as geese changing direction simultaneously or bees communicating through movement.
My first impulse was to chalk this phenomenon up to misdirected maternal instinct and therefore outside my ability to comprehend. After all, women have a biological imperative to nurture and protect. In the absence of actual offspring, maybe a four-door sedan is the next best thing. Perhaps a diaper free object of affection with air-conditioning and good gas mileage is worthy of a little love. However, the new car/newborn analogy starts to fall apart when you consider any woman who drives recklessly, thus jettisoning her ” baby” through oncoming traffic. And if motherly love were the motivation for this trend, running out of gas or not getting regular oil changes could border on child abuse. Despite old axioms, the simplest solution in this case doesn’t seem to be the right one. I suppose it should come as no surprise that the female gender would be the exception to this rule.
The more I discuss this phenomenon with the women in my life, the more I’m convinced that there must be some collective experience that motivates them to label their Lexus, nickname their Nissan, title their Toyota or otherwise alliteratively baptize their cars. After all, little girls are treated differently from boys from the minute they’re swathed in pink. As males we’re given cars and trucks to play with. We crash and race and crash and maneuver and crash these inanimate objects without real emotional attachment. But girls are given toys that communicate. Dolls, Barbies, and even stuffed animals are characters when girls play. They talk and cooperate and…drink tea? as part of the fantasy family. I know what you’re thinking: boys play with ” characters” too. But He-man’s dialogue to the Ninja Turtles is usually limited to battle cries and disputes over who ” got” who. So after we’ve socialized an entire sex to ascribe emotions and names to their possessions, maybe the automobile is the adult version of the paper doll.
Now it sounds Freudian and analytical and romantic to explain away this feminine quirk using childhood psychology. But at the end of the day I’m not convinced there isn’t something far more sinister at work here. As I wrestle with the seeming logical void that is car-naming, I’m suddenly struck by a conspiracy theory. Cynicism and testosterone rush to my brain and I find myself wondering if perhaps the women of the world secretly delight at our frustration. I can’t help wonder if after centuries of oppression and subservience, the female gender decided to tip the power scales by totally confusing their male counterparts. It’s working. I can’t even count the times I’ve scratched my head or sighed with exasperation or just lamented ” women make no sense!” Perhaps there’s a collective understanding that as soon as men start to figure things out, the system gets changed. It’s a power struggle of the most Machiavellian kind. Today they moniker their cars, but tomorrow they might shave their eyebrows, or cry but say they’re happy, or be attracted to bald men. As long as men spend all our time trying to figure out what just happened, we’re powerless. It’s all an ovarian plot to prove that now and forever, men don’t know anything about women. Well women of the world, excuse the pun, but you’ve driven your point home. I understand nothing about women. Go ahead refer to you vehicles as Tina or Deena or Mina or whatever. I surrender. But know this: as long as I’m forced to play by your rules, I’m naming my car Superman.