The turtle lives 'twixt plated decks
Which practically conceal its sex.
I think it clever of the turtle
In such a fix to be so fertile.
– Ogden Nash
Engineers, especially software engineers, have a reputation for being geeks. Nerds. A bit clueless about women and socializing. Frustratingly even-tempered, not showing a lot of emotion even when life throws them some curve balls. Newfound love or a relationship on the rocks, our team winning the World Series or losing it, a big bonus at work or a layoff ... these things all send their more artistic / emotive friends to the heights of happiness or the pits of despair, while the engineer just keeps sailing along on an even keel.
In college, one of my engineering professors told us of a faculty meeting where an English professor accused him of being a "linear thinker." We all sat there waiting for the punch line, until he explained to us that the English professor considered this an insult. Now THAT was funny – that straight, logical path to an optimal solution was an insult! Then someone asked, "Does the English professor advocate circular logic?" Which brought on more laughter. We were geeks one and all.
I'm happy to report that this Engineers-Are-Geeks meme, is ... true. Plain and simple, it's the reality. I've worked with a LOT of engineers – mechanical, electrical, chemical, civil, and software engineers – and I'll state without hesitation that engineers are pretty geeky. No, they didn't all have plastic pocket protectors, and they didn't all wear button-down collars. Some of them were excellent musicians, expert jugglers, great racing sailors, or fanatical motorcycle riders. But they all shared that core element of "linear thinking" that works so well in engineering, and (unfortunately for their less geeky friends and loved ones) they carry this mindset over into their personal lives.
Which is why, in the Spring of 1982, I was caught completely off guard, blindsided by a deep and unexpected, and completely irrational, emotional experience. My life, which had always sailed on its even keel, was hit an emotional storm so powerful it was knocked sideways, its gunwales awash. The cause of this hurricane of emotions was a tiny bundle containing a mere seven pounds of baby. My attraction to this bundle was fierce and primitive, way down deep inside me, of an intensity I'd never experienced before. Sure, I'd felt love, lust, disappointment, happiness and anger before. But nothing like this primordial, naked pull of nature, telling me, "THAT'S YOUR CHILD." The bond was immediate. I knew, right then and there, that I'd willingly stand in harms way, or even give my life, to protect my baby. I had never, ever, felt anything even remotely as intense and primitive as I felt in those minutes.
I'd always thought this sort of bonding experience was for mothers, not fathers, and my linear way of thinking made me completely unprepared for this wonderful, instinctive and utterly non-linear emotional experience. I was more prepared when my second and third children were born, but still felt that wonderful love that only a child can inspire.
Eighteen years later, I faced another primitive emotional storm. During those eighteen years, my three wonderful kids grew into young adults, my career and hobbies expanded, and I was beginning to look forward to the days when my child-rearing duties were complete. I only had to deliberate briefly before I concluded that I didn't need any more children in my life, which meant it was time for me to visit the urologist for the Big V – that is, to get a vasectomy.
Once again, I was unexpectedly overwhelmed by non-linear, irrational thinking. What should have been a completely logical course of action, to end my fertility, proved to be remarkably difficult in practice. Sure, I knew all the funny jokes comparing sterilization to castration, and these didn't bother me; my intellectual, rational side was still intact enough to know that my manliness wasn't threatened.
It was deeper than that. The idea that I shouldn't have more children was easy to accept, but the I idea that I couldn't have more children, ever ... I just didn't want to do that. My rational side knew that I'd never father another child. My primitive side didn't want to give up. Somewhere, deep inside me, there was still that most basic instinct telling me, "Reproduce!" My intellectual brain was exceptionally good at converting this primitive voice into convincing excuses. "Maybe," it whispered to me, "your whole family will be killed in a car wreck, and you'll need to start again!" Or, "I hear there are lots of side effects to the operation! You could get cysts, and groin pain!" Or, "It's the woman who gets pregnant, let her take care of it!"
My primitive primate brain isn't very smart, and I hate it when it wins arguments. So, I finally told it to shut up, went to the urologist, and got it over with. But it wasn't easy.