Things We All Pretend We Know How to Do

There comes a point in every person's life when you realize something deeply unsettling about adulthood: nobody knows what they're doing. As children, we assumed adults possessed information unavailable to us. They understood mortgages. They could balance a checkbook without asking anyone for help. They knew which wrench to use and the names of both screwdriver types. (Phillips, flathead) They could determine whether a melon was ripe simply by touching it. They could stand beside a broken car, stare into the engine compartment, and somehow diagnose the problem through facial expressions alone. Then we became adults and discovered the terrible truth: they're bluffing. We're all bluffing...

In fact, a significant portion of adulthood consists of standing near something you don't understand, narrowing your eyes, placing one hand on your hip or your chin, and saying, "Hmmm." This technique is remarkably effective.

Consider wine. Wine perhaps offers the greatest opportunity for completely unqualified people to pretend they possess knowledge passed down through generations of the European aristocracy. Someone hands you a bottle at dinner. You read the label. You understand approximately four words. But you can't simply say, "Looks good." Absolutely not. You must inspect it. So you hold the bottle toward the light. Why? Nobody knows. Perhaps you're checking for counterfeit grapes. Then you slowly rotate it, examining the label with scholarly concentration. "Aahhh, yes. A 1998 Pinot Noir. Fantastic year." You have no idea what happened in 1998. You barely remember where you lived. Nevertheless, you've just issued an agricultural assessment of an entire growing season.

Meanwhile, two actual Napa Valley grape growers sitting nearby have stopped eating. One looks at the other. "Wasn't 1998 terrible?" "Pretty much." "And isn't that bottle from Oregon?" "Yep." But it's too late. You've established yourself as an authority. The wine is poured. Now comes the swirling. You swirl because you've seen other people swirl. Then you sniff. "Mmmm." What are you smelling? Wine. That's what you're smelling. But someone makes the catastrophic mistake of asking: "What do you think?" Now you need vocabulary. "Very... earthy." There it is. Earthy. The emergency flotation device of wine criticism. "I'm getting a little oak. Maybe cherry." You're getting grapes, Kevin. You're drinking fermented grapes. But everyone nods thoughtfully because nobody wants to admit they aren't getting the cherry either.

This same phenomenon occurs when somebody opens the hood of a car. The moment that hood rises, every adult within twenty feet becomes a mechanic. People gather. Hands go onto hips. Everyone leans forward. "Hmmm." Nobody knows what they're Hmmm-ing at. Most of us can identify the battery because it looks vaguely familiar. Everything else is simply Engine Stuff. But silence would expose us, so someone eventually says, "Hear that ticking?" Suddenly everyone hears the ticking. "Oh yeah." "Definitely." It may be a bird in a nearby tree. Or someone's knee popping as they bent forward... Doesn't matter. We're committed now. "Could be the alternator." Could it? Can you point to the alternator? Of course not. So you reach into the engine compartment and jiggle a hose. This is critical. Jiggling a hose communicates mechanical competence. Then you step back. "Hmmm." Problem not solved. Reputation preserved.

Grocery stores provide another opportunity for adults to demonstrate expertise they absolutely do not possess, specifically, watermelons. At some point, humanity collectively decided that you can determine the internal quality of a watermelon by knocking on it. So we do. Knock knock. Then we listen. To what? Nobody knows. What is a good watermelon supposed to sound like? Hollow? Dense? Should it have bass? Are we buying produce or selecting a snare drum? Nevertheless, we knock. The important part is what happens afterward: you must pause thoughtfully. Knock knock. "Hmmm." Put it back. Pick up another. Knock knock. Pause. Nod. "That's the one." Based on WHAT, Professor Melon? Did it answer correctly? Was there a tiny farmer inside? Yet if another shopper happens to be watching, your confidence increases dramatically. Now you're practically a watermelon sommelier. You inspect the field spot, turn it, knock again, maybe even hold it near your ear. The other shopper watches carefully because they don't know what they're doing either. Five minutes later, they're copying you. Congratulations. You've founded a school.

Weather forecasting works similarly. Human beings possess satellites, radar systems, supercomputers, atmospheric models, and thousands of trained meteorologists. None of that matters once Uncle Gary steps outside. Gary looks toward the horizon, witnessing dark clouds. He folds his arms. "We're gonna get something." Excellent work, Doppler-man. Millions of dollars in meteorological equipment have just been rendered unnecessary. Sometimes Gary will even wet a finger and hold it in the air. Now we're doing frontier science. "Wind's changing." Is it? Or is your finger cold because you just licked it? Nobody challenges Gary because weather confidence is inherited from ancient times when somebody's grandfather could supposedly predict rain because his left knee hurt.

Home repair may be the most dangerous arena for pretend expertise. Someone says, "There's something wrong with this wall." Immediately, you touch the wall. Why? What exactly are your fingertips measuring? Structural integrity? Load distribution? Drywall morale? You press against it. "Huh." Then you knock on it. Apparently, knocking is humanity's universal diagnostic procedure: watermelons, walls, engines if we're desperate enough. "Yeah," you finally announce. "That's definitely not right." Thank goodness you came. The structural engineers can go home.

Of course, electronics create an entirely different kind of expert. Whenever the internet stops working, somebody immediately walks over to the router and stares at the lights: green, red, blinking green, orange. Nobody knows what these mean, but we stare anyway. Then comes the most sophisticated technological repair procedure known to modern civilization: unplug it, wait ten seconds, plug it back in. If that works, you become Bill Gates. If it doesn't, you blame the provider. There is no third option.

Cooking is another enormous theater of confidence. Someone asks, "Is the pasta done?" You remove one noodle, bite it, then stare thoughtfully into the middle distance. What are you evaluating? Texture? Density? The cultural heritage of Tuscany? "It's almost there." How do you know? You don't. You just don't want to be responsible for declaring the pasta finished. Then there's meat on a grill. Men who haven't cooked anything more complicated than frozen pizza suddenly become prehistoric pit masters. Someone presses the steak with a finger. "Medium rare." Apparently the human index finger contains an internal meat thermometer. Nobody questions it. We simply accept that Brad has touched enough steaks to develop thermal clairvoyance. I think we would all like our steak without Brad's finger impression...

But perhaps the greatest bluff in adult life occurs when somebody asks you to assemble furniture. The box arrives; you open it. Inside are forty-three wooden pieces, fourteen bags of hardware, several mysterious brackets, and an instruction manual clearly created by someone who communicates exclusively through drawings of cheerful stick figures. A rational person would carefully read the instructions. An adult says, "I got this," and throws them aside. This is the moment everything goes wrong. Twenty minutes later, you've attached Piece F to Piece C using Bolt H when apparently you were supposed to use Bolt J. No problem. You improvise. An hour passes. The furniture begins developing a noticeable lean. Your spouse enters the room. "Is it supposed to look like that?" "Yep." It's absolutely not supposed to look like that.

Eventually the project is complete. Mostly... You stand back proudly. The bookshelf appears structurally capable of supporting approximately three paperbacks and a photograph. Then you notice something on the floor: four screws, two washers, a bracket, and one wooden peg. Your stomach drops. Someone asks the obvious question: "Aren't those supposed to go somewhere?" And here, ladies and gentlemen, we witness the pinnacle of adult confidence. You don't hesitate. You don't inspect the furniture. You don't consult the manual. You simply shrug and deliver one of the oldest lies in human civilization: "They always give you extra parts, just in case." No. They don't. Those screws have a home. That bracket had a purpose. Somewhere inside your newly assembled bookcase is a structural responsibility currently being handled by optimism. But admitting that would violate the fundamental agreement of adulthood.

Because the truth is, most of us are just making it up as we go. We don't know whether the wine is earthy. We don't know what the alternator sounds like. We don't know what the watermelon told us. We can't predict rain by licking our fingers. We aren't qualified to inspect walls. And we certainly don't know why four screws are still sitting on the carpet. But we've learned something far more important: if you're ever confronted with something you don't understand, don't panic. Stand still. Put one hand on your hip. Narrow your eyes. Nod slowly. Then say, "Hmmm." Congratulations. You're an expert!