When I was younger, I knew a lot less than I claimed. I didn’t want to be embarrassed.

There are certain things a guy’s supposed to know and I didn’t want to admit in front of my he-man buddies and cousins that I didn’t.

How to repair car engines should be part one of those instinctual things for guys, like breathing and spitting. I guessed a lot, counting on my Y chromosome to send me down the right, rugged, he-man path.

“Sounds like the carburetor,” I’d proclaim from beneath the hood as I jiggled wires, poked hoses and maybe kicked a tire.

“Cars no longer have carburetors. Those are the spark plugs. Don’t you know nothin’?” My buddies and cousins broke unto gales of laughter and derision.

“Of course I know! I was just testing you,” I’d whine. “Besides, you guys looked like you could use a laugh.”

And then I take up my regular job as a mechanic, providing valuable light on the subject. I mean, someone had to hold the flashlight.

Decades have rolled by and times have changed. Maybe not time, but I’ve changed. Now I freely admit that I don’t know how to do something — even if I do.

“I don’t know how” is a magic phrase, practically my mantra now.

Oh, sure, admitting ignorance might produce the eye rolls, snorts and sneers I feared 40 and 50 years ago, but I’m pretty well numb to ridicule. I’ve been married, raised kids, worked under unreasonable bosses (not you, Boss Lady, if you’re reading this; you can’t get more reasonable than you!), endured critics, and — the clincher — survived junior high school.

Embarrassment has faded into wisdom of the aged. The shame I felt back then has morphed into cunning.

While they’re huffing, “Doesn’t this doofus know anything?” I’m chuckling inside because, once again, somebody is willingly doing my work for me. They think they’re showing me up; I’m just glad they showed up or I’d be stuck doing the thing myself.

I get away with it because at my age, I’m no longer expected to know things. The kids know that technology has passed me by, modern methods have passed me by, vim and vigor have passed me by.

You know what hasn’t passed me by? The long-established pattern of older (read “wiser”) citizens (as in “senior”) who understand that if the young pups want to run around barking and using up all their energy, let them! With them yipping and yapping at our problem, we can just take a nap until the project’s finished.

Then we put on the feeble old man act again, extend a shaky handshake, wobble a little bit, and croak, “I sure do appreciate it. I just can’t wrap my old head around these new contraptions. I remember when all we needed was WD-40 and duct tape. I even fixed my social studies homework with WD-40 and duct tape. This new stuff … I don’t know how I ever would have figured this out by myself.”

It’s the proverbial win-win situation. The work is done without any effort on my part other than making up outlandish stories about the old days. They think I’m a confused idiot who needs saving, so they get to check off their good deed for the day while they roll their eyes, wondering how anyone that clueless can function at all.

I totter back to my easy chair and try to hold back my chuckles. “This is getting too easy. Those young’uns don’t know as much as they think they know. Suckers.”

I don’t know anything and you can’t prove that I do!

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