Rule #111: The Motorcycle Rule
I live by a simple rule when it comes to asking questions in life: I never ask a question if “no” isn’t an acceptable answer.
If I really want to buy a motorcycle, and I know I’m going to do it regardless of what Bobbi says, then I don’t bother asking. Why pretend it’s her decision when I’ve already made mine? That’s not a conversation—that’s an argument waiting to happen.
Now, this rule sounds harsh, but I don’t use it often. Maybe once every couple of months. Most of the time, I absolutely ask for Bobbi’s opinion, advice, or permission—because that’s what marriage is. You can’t share a life with someone and without consistently checking in. But when I do ask, it’s because I’m truly ready to accept her answer, even if it’s no. If I’m not willing to hear that, then it’s unfair to insult her by pretending she has a choice.
Too many people use questions as cover. We ask permission so we can dodge responsibility for our own decisions. We say, “Well, I asked,” as if that absolves us of owning what we wanted in the first place. That’s not partnership—that’s cowardice. And if we’re honest, a lot of men spend their marriages looking weak and indecisive because they’re constantly asking questions where they can’t stomach a no.
And before you think this is just a man problem—ladies, you’ve got your tricks too. Let’s talk dinner. I’ll ask Bobbi, “Where do you want to go?” She’ll say, “I don’t care, you pick.” Which is, of course, the biggest lie in marriage. What she really means is: I absolutely do care, but I want you to read my mind and guess the exact restaurant I’m craving tonight. If you guess wrong, you will pay. With interest.
This isn’t a question—it’s a hostage negotiation with appetizers. I’ll start throwing out places like I’m defusing a bomb. “Olive Garden?” Nope. “Mexican?” Closer, but no. “Italian?” Getting colder. By the time I stumble into the right answer, I’ve sweated more than if I’d actually been in a hostage crisis.
Over the years, I’ve learned which restaurants are my “get out of jail free” cards. For me, it’s The Cheesecake Factory. I could commit just about any misdemeanor of marriage, but if I suggest two hours of the larges menu in the world, suddenly I’m rehabilitated. Apparently, cheesecake fixes everything. Women are evil. Men are pigs. Marriage works because both are true.
So the art of asking questions comes down to this: only ask when you’re prepared to really listen to the answer. Ask to learn, not to dodge. Ask to understand, not to shift blame.
As I’ve gotten older, I find myself asking fewer but better questions. Maybe that’s what my dad meant in his later years when he’d say, “I’m set in my ways.” He wasn’t being stubborn—he was just done pretending he needed permission for the things he already knew he was going to do.
And don’t worry, Bobbi—I haven’t ordered another motorcycle or gotten that tattoo. Yet. But if I ever do, I’ll make it easy on both of us: I’ll buy the bike, and then take you straight to The Cheesecake Factory. By dessert, you won’t even care I rode it there.
Love, Dad