With summer approaching, I thought about all the men with wives, who insist that they ask for directions while traveling. You know them by virtue of insanity. There you sit in the front seat of the car with a road atlas carefully highlighted in yellow by yours truly - a task that you tediously performed the evening before departure. Your entire route is brightly highlighted, including pit stops along the way. You have, against better judgment, designated your wife as "navigator," so that you can stay focused on the friendly game of road rage that looms ahead… and she still wants you to ask for directions from a stranger.
I take you back to Robert Benchley's 1923 short story "Ask That Man" via an article in the Chicago Tribune, which describes how Mr. Benchley successfully broke his wife of the habit: