By Jennifer Batchelor
@jennbatchelor

“Did I do it right this time?”

The answering smile—a grimace, really—says it all.

“Seriously?! I still didn’t hang them right?”

“Not exactly. But it’s fine, Love. I can just rehang them.”

There is grace and humor in his words of reassurance, but I feel neither. Chalk it up to the cumulative effects of 2020—which I’ve used to rationalize everything from my current romance novel habit to my near-daily cocktail ritual—but I feel actual tears pricking my eyelids that I furiously blink away. 

“I just don’t understand what I’m doing wrong,” I say, and I hate the pathetic way my voice wobbles. I mean, it’s pants.

“Honestly, I don’t either.” Jon answers without rancor or judgment as he shakes out and perfectly pleats a pair of pants on the hanger without even looking. “Maybe you’re just moving too quickly?”

“I actually tried really hard to do it the right way,” I mumble. “I rehung them three times.”

Jon chuckles and comes over to place his hands on my shoulders. “That’s maybe the saddest and most adorable thing I’ve ever heard. Thank you for trying.”

I nod and move to put the shirts that I do finally fold correctly away in the armoire. Part of me is eyerolling my sulkiness, but I can’t seem to shake a vague sense of shame over how many times I’ve heard “thank you for trying.” Oh sure, I joke all the time about how great it is to be the messy member of the couple. My friends will grumble about husbands who leave their dirty clothes right next to the hamper instead of in it or their dirty dishes in the sink, inches from an empty and waiting dishwasher. But at our house, that person is me—I’m the one who doesn’t always turn off all (or any) of the lights and leaves a drawer (or four) open after getting ready in the morning. 

I tease about the freedom that’s found in being the one who cares less. But there’s also a well of frustration within me that, after seventeen years together, I still can’t hang my husband’s pants up the way he likes.

I asked Jon once if it bothers him—that I am not as neat, as careful, as mindful as he is. Being Jon, he just shrugged.

“I mean, in the beginning, it used to,” he said. “And sometimes it still does, especially when you don’t screw the top all the way on something and I spill it all over the place the next time I go to grab it.”

(Yes, this has happened. More than once. I really do have redeeming qualities, I swear.)

He went on. ”But then, I realized you’re not doing it on purpose. It’s that you really don’t see it.”

One side of his mouth pulled up in a wry half-grin.

“So now, I just do it for you. After all, it seems dumb to get mad at someone for something they don’t see.” 

***

In psychology, there’s a phenomenon known as the false-consensus effect. Essentially, it means that people tend to assume their personal experiences, beliefs, and judgments are widely-held. You see it leveraged especially in advertising—think about every time you’ve seen the language “nine out of 10 consumers agree,” for example. Everyone thinks this brand of toothpaste is the best, they’re trying to convince you. If you don’t, you’re an outlier.

False-consensus effect is what compels us to fit in. It’s also what makes us blind to the difficulties or challenges someone else might face because they aren’t the same as our difficulties or challenges. It is why we subconsciously assume two things: a) that we see the totality of the experience, and b) that everyone else sees what we do. It’s for sure the reason behind every sentence that starts with, “I just don’t understand how anyone could …”

Most people tend to isolate themselves in a bias vacuum—that is, they surround themselves with people and information that reinforce their pre-existing beliefs, so that they’re shocked to encounter an entire subset of the population who believe something different. We are biased in our expectation that everyone is playing not just by the same set of rules, but by our rules.

How could you vote for him?
Why would you choose that for your children?
And yes, even why can’t you hang up pants correctly?
Or, if I’m being fair: why does it matter how I hang the damn pants?

Research shows there’s only one foolproof way to combat false-consensus bias: by broadening our viewpoint. Ideally this is done by expanding our own social circle: having friends of different socioeconomic backgrounds, races, cultures, and even geographic regions. We can also accomplish it by diversifying our media intake: varying who we read, listen to, get our news from, who we follow on social media. Travel is an excellent antidote, whether it’s across the globe or simply into (or out of) the city.

The goal of conquering false-consensus bias isn’t to change what we see. It’s simply to remind us that there are also things we don’t see.

***

I feign nonchalance a week later when Jon gets home from work. I kiss him hello and ask about his day while I finish the supper preparations. My chill game is extremely limited though, and by the time I set the oven timer I can’t stand it anymore. I go back to our bedroom where Jon is changing from his work clothes.

“Did you notice anything?” I ask with enthusiasm. Jon gives me the trapped look of a husband who knows there’s an important answer to that question, there’s definitely something he should notice, but he’s drawing a blank. His eyes carefully pass over my hair—a new cut or color, maybe? But no, my roots are still visible on my third-day-since-washing messy bun. He glances around the room—did she clean the house? Clothes on the floor; visible dust on the nightstand … so, no. I fight a smile as I watch his dilemma, then take pity and put him out of his misery. I drag him to the closet and open the doors with a flourish.

“Look!” I say triumphantly, pointing at the row of pants at the bottom of his side of the closet. Then, uncertainty creeps in. 

“Did I do it right?”

Jon takes the question seriously, bending over to check that the seams are lined up and each pair is evenly balanced over the hanger. He straightens and turns to grin at me.

“They look great, Love,” he says. “Nice job.”

I legitimately clap my hands in childish delight. 

“Finally!” I crow. “I spent 20 minutes of my afternoon hanging four pairs of pants, but I did it.”

Jon smiles, then hesitates a second—just long enough for the levity of the moment to dissipate a bit. “Thanks, Love,” he says. “For trying so hard.”

This time, his thank you for trying hits a little different, and my eyes well up not in frustration, but pleasure.

“Thanks for noticing,” I answer, clearing my throat a little. “And you’re welcome.”

***

Maybe we can’t help what we don’t see. But we can believe someone else who sees what we don’t. We can learn to notice things because they’re important to the people we care about. We can broaden the group of people we care about.

We can spend an afternoon (and 17 years) learning how to hang the pants.

Learning to notice could be why we’re here. Maybe asking the question “what don’t I see?” is where we should always begin.

Photo by Lottie Caiella.