Allow Me to Mansplain...

If there's one thing we know, it's this: We're a nation of know-it-alls

- Andy Simmons

THERE'S A FINE between educating someone on a subject and being an overbearing bore. I trampled that line a long time ago.

Just the other day, my wife and I were discussing how painful childbirth is.

Scratch that. I was discussing how painful childbirth is; the person who actually gave birth to a child was rolling her eyes.

“I [that would be me] would have to say the pain is akin to the sensation of having your insides ripped apart by two gerbils fighting over a lettuce leaf. That, or watching an eight-year-old trying to tell a joke. But even those examples don’t capture the agony.”

Jennifer rolled her eyes in the direction of the TV remote and picked it up.

“The thing I can best compare it to is the time …”

She turned on Netflix, found Shogun and fast-forwarded to a samurai fight scene.

“… my brand-new sneakers chafed my corns …”

She raised the volume to 62.

“Yes, that’s the closest comparison I can make to childbirth …”

To 77.

“You see … YOU SEE, CHILDBIRTH— MUCH LIKE CHAFED CORNS …”

She hit mute.

“… IS VERY PAIN … ful.”

“I have a suggestion,” she said, in a voice that led me to believe this was no mere suggestion, but an order to be carried out immediately.

“Why don’t you write an article about mansplaining?”

“Did you know that mansplaining is a portmanteau of man and explaining and describes the act in which a man provides a condescending explanation of something to a woman who already understands it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, did you know this? Women such as yourself don’t much care for mansplaining.”

I had no idea the volume on our TV could reach 147.

Mansplaining is not new. It’s been around since the first caveman told the first cavewoman how to braise a sabre-toothed tiger. She responded with a polite nod, then proceeded to cook the beast the way Mama Neanderthal had taught her.