The head of the excavation team that is repairing our leak gave me a piece of the tube he removed to show my husband so that he can see the cracks in it. The cracks are very visible, and anyway, I have a better vision than N who wears glasses. The foreman starts every sentence with “please tell your husband for me,” even though he never saw the husband, and N and I agreed that taking care of the leak is my responsibility.
I find it very cute when older working-class men treat me like a tender flower who can’t comprehend the functioning of tubes. It’s like when a plumber came out to repair the toilet and asked me to leave because it was going “to smell real bad for a pretty lady like you.” The plumber knew I had a small child and was as used to dealing with fecal matter as he, but still he wanted to protect me from the ugliness. It was nice.