Deductive Reasoning: How To Look Like an Ass

Deductive reasoning is a rather basic concept. Based on the facts at hand, you draw a conclusion. Juries use this when they review the evidence of a case. Animals implement it when hunting for prey. And deductive reasoning is rather helpful when navigating the security line at the airport. Families with small children, people carrying pillows, and anyone sporting a lanyard with travel paperwork shoved inside - this is the population that never got the memo about liquids.

The problem with deductive reasoning is it that, at a certain point, you become conditioned by what you have experienced. If I open the door, the dog will run out. A jellied piece of bread will always land jam-side down. When it repeatedly appears A + B = C, you stop processing the data and jump right to C.

“I’m baffled,” I said to my girlfriend the other day. “Sunday I sent him a text message saying hi and he didn’t respond. Which seemed sort of odd.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And then, last night I sent a specific text trying to help him out with something and he never replied. Though he did send a random email later on about a watch I should check out.”

“No, that’s curious.”

That’s when the conversation spiraled into two girls over analyzing facts in an attempt to draw conclusions and assign meaning. If you have ovaries, you’re familiar with this torturous dialogue. After half an hour of studying the evidence, we couldn’t help but apply the proven mathematical equation used for these specific facts. Me reaching out + him not responding = doom.

“I feel like such an ass,” I said.

A few days later, fed up with the inconsistencies of our communication, I used my best snarky, scorned-woman tone available via Google chat and I called him out for ignoring me. I’ll admit this wasn’t my proudest moment. It was me grasping for control. Feeling vulnerable has never been my strong suit. So I’d pretty much rank this inquiry somewhere between ‘accidentally tucking my skirt into my panties’ and ‘loudly suggesting within earshot of a mom swaddling a cranky tot that overhead bins on airplanes should double as storage for screaming babies.’

“I never got your text,” he replied.

Gulp.

Then he texted me: If you’re sending naked pictures to someone else….

I chuckled in that nervous dreaded way reserved for times when you know you are about to realize you are an idiot. Then I toggled between the text I just received and the ones I had sent. One digit. Somehow his area code was off by one digit. And, for the record, this marks the second time my Blackberry has done this with his number. It’s just that it didn’t matter before because back then I didn’t have a desire to kiss him.

After slamming my head against my keyboard, after swallowing down my pride, I apologized. I made a joke and admitted stupidity. Then I checked to make sure my skirt wasn’t tucked into my panties. Because based on deductive reasoning: when it rains, it pours.