She’d rather be intoning ‘Home, James’
THERE’S hardly a vehicle rolling off the lot these days without the superhero package that includes -- may the Thomas Brothers’ maps rest in peace -- GPS navigation.
I’d experienced “nav” once before in a rental car as my boyfriend rather callously ignored the lusty-voiced lady who urged him along strange alternate routes in downtown San Francisco. Just as he would have with any female intervention, he bypassed her every helpful direction. He didn’t mute her insistence, however. “Her voice is interesting, you have to admit,” he suggested. No, I didn’t, since it was both throatier and far less strident than mine, considering the unnerving notion that we might be lost.
“I find her calm a bit irritating,” I mentioned.
“Don’t be defensive,” he chastised. Were we about to have our first fight over a female voice recording?
“She’s probably nothing but cyber,” I punctuated our brief exchange with a dig.
I thought I had psychologically grown since then. But here I was, three years later and married to him, about to hurl myself back into that abyss of insecurity.
In my recently purchased car, I was relieved to find that Nancy Nav was much less alluring this time. Perhaps auto manufacturers had decided equality in the workplace extends to the commute as well. I was all for it, even though I’d never shown much interest in the whole male/female political correctness. Now it was personal, since my handsome husband was going to want to drive this sleek car. I was easily threatened by the come-hither tone of our suggestive Sally in San Francisco. This freeway femme was much less fatale -- rather flat by comparison to the well-endowed urges from the one for rent.
I pushed the voice icon on the steering wheel. Sure enough, Nancy Nav suggested that I offer a command. I’d seen the salesman showing my husband this feature, so I echoed their encounter by stating confidently, “I’m hungry!”
Instantly, several icons appeared on the dashboard screen -- all fast-food and burger places. A new reason to be concerned, I thought, as I imagined that any man’s dream would be to have a female voice offer umpteen choices of high-fat drive-throughs and microbrew sports bars -- and to have those options displayed visually rather than itemized vocally. Was there any way to input more expensive destinations here -- ones with white tablecloths and without TV monitors? Or perhaps I could track my husband’s meanderings throughout the business day. I promised myself that if I ever tried that, I would immediately seek counseling. Not to mention, if he could track me, he’d know I was at South Coast Plaza instead of volunteering at church.
I pushed the button and said, “Home.” Our salesman had already input our address. At least I wouldn’t have to drop breadcrumbs after Alzheimer’s sets in, and if I could just find a car that drove itself, I wouldn’t have to worry about prescription eyeglasses!
My new girlfriend -- the one whom I would probably spend more time with than any other, considering my hours on the road -- came on loud and clear. “Destination: home.” She began to tell me how to get there.
That’s when it occurred to me: Why is the navigational narrator always a woman? Where’s the understanding but firm reassurance of the man with the voice of, say, Sam Elliott or James Earl Jones? Shouldn’t this option be offered for the female driver? I want an attentive man’s voice -- one that reeks of the Ritz dining room by candlelight -- to tell me where I can go when I’m hungry. Every woman would rather hear a lovely male baritone croon the road home.
And as far as accepting direction: Well, I don’t know if women take it from men any better than men do from women. But if he ever sounds a tad too controlling for my taste, I’ll just push his button and he’ll get lost.
