For months I’ve seen a lot of media pointing to the statistic below, almost always in alarm, with the subtext of “How can we expect these poor nervous men to do their jobs?” And my first though is always the same: “Good; let’s go for 100%”

There’s a few things here to consider about these poor nervous men.

First, it’s a *good* thing they’re nervous, not a bad one. It means when they’re dealing with women, either in groups or 1-1, they’re *considering their behavior*. And when the problems happen is when guys thoughtlessly assume their behavior is *just fine*. When they think “Of *course* I’m not doing anything wrong! I’m a feminist! I’m a good guy! WTF are you talking about?” If they’re watching their own behavior, they’re a lot less likely to behave inappropriately.

That’s why I say we should go for 100%, and why I don’t get why the media always cites this stat as if it were bad. It’s *good*. Making managers more self-conscious is *a good thing*. So let’s see more of it!

Second, they’re managers, not delicate, emotionally fragile kindergarteners. They’re not teen boys worrying about how to ask someone out on their first date. Nor are they gay teens dealing with the agonies of coming out. These are grown men in a position of authority in business. Some of them have partners at home, kids, mortgages, bills to pay. Heavy work responsibilities. Are we really worrying about *making them “nervous” because they have to leave their office door *open* rather than closed for their weekly 1-1 with Jane? Seriously? Get over it.

Finally, have some perspective. When you’re marching out to your car in the middle of a dark parking garage one January night, consider Jane trying to do the same thing. Jane is clutching her keys in her fist as a weapon. Maybe her other hand is in her bag, finger on the trigger of some pepper spray. Or maybe she waited to leave until Sarah could walk with her. Or she car pooled so she wouldn’t have to be alone in a dark parking garage at night. I assure you Jane is way more than “nervous” about being assaulted—possibly by a co-worker!—than Joe Manager is about meeting with Jane tomorrow 1-1.

I just mention this because yesterday I again saw this 60% figure mentioned as if it were some horrible thing and I was disgusted. I’ve been a manager. And in my area of tech, tech writing, I work with a lot of women. I’ve had far more women managers than men. I’ve had more women reporting to me than men. So if you’re a man with women reporting to you and you’re “nervous”? Good! Use it as an goad to examine your behavior and make adjustments. Ask your direct reports if they have any suggestings. And above all FFS quit whining.

https://www.cnbc.com/2019/05/17/60percent-of-male-managers-now-say-theyre-uncomfortable-mentoring-women.html

Sometimes an image flashes just for a moment, a lucky instant, and gets captured there in your mind. Mostly not, mostly they float away, but sometimes the beauty that is all around us, unnoticed usually, hits us suddenly, is noticed, and is remembered.

She was just six, maybe, or seven, and I was pulling over to get the mail. She lives down the block; her name is Zoe and she’s a delight. I see her in front of her house when the evenings are fine, with her mother, drawing on the sidewalk with chalk or being pushed on her swing. My puppies love her, and I try hard to show a level of interest that’s not too creepy; hard in a middle-aged man in these suspicious times.

And now there was Zoe, moving towards the street! I’m driving! Uh oh! And snap, a moment:

I look over, concentrating hard, because I don’t want to hit her. But she’s not running into the street; she stands, one foot on the curb, right hand outstretched, left hand back for balance, fiercely focused on something just in front of her, not moving.

They float there, three shimmering, translucent spheres, almost invisible, hanging in the air. Zoe’s mom, a big smile on her face, stands with the big bubble paddle still extended and dripping on the sidewalk, watching Her Girl trying to pop the bubbles before they do it of themselves.

The moment is frozen in my mind; just a moment, ordinary and beautiful. The bubbles glittering in the setting sun; her mom’s smile; her intent expression and outstretched hand; my worry turning into pleasure. Only a moment.

My mind is already trying to turn it into a picture, wishing I could draw, or paint. Wishing I could freeze time like a speedster superhero like the Flash or Quicksilver so I could whip out my phone and take a picture. Wishing I had the drawing talent of my friends like Paul or Becky and could take the image in my head and set it down on paper, unburdened by my nerve damage and shaky, poorly-coordinated hands.

All I have is words. Words to convey to you her brown-blonde hair frozen as she moves towards those three bubbles hanging in the air, stops on the curb, weight held on that one front foot as she reaches forward towards the shimmering bubbles. The tables of the two observers on either side: Her mom who initiated the moment, and the lucky man who got to observe it my merest chance and bring it to you, whoever you are, wherever you are, and let you fold it into your mind.

It’s not a painting, or a drawing; it’s my sketch, in words. I hope you liked it.