I am convinced that men are born knowing how to back up trailers. It’s encoded somewhere between “Y chromosome” and “love of remote controls.”

While the doctor is still announcing, “It’s a boy!” the newborn is already hollering, “Ease it back, Doc, cut it to the left, watch that angle through the birth canal!” They are probably practicing hand signals in the womb so they can assist when the big day comes.

Meanwhile, we women come into this world mastering multitasking, empathy, and how to remember everyone’s birthday; but put us in a truck with a trailer, and suddenly we’re sweating, praying, and questioning every life choice that led us to this parking lot.

I am fairly certain my first marriage ended at a boat ramp. There were witnesses, hand gestures, and words that could melt the paint off the trailer hitch. I was behind the wheel trying to back the boat in, while my then-husband was behind me doing the “universal man signal” for “you’re doing it wrong.” (Which, for the record, is a flapping arm combined with a disgusted sigh, when I couldn’t understand the hand signals.)

By the time I finally got that trailer somewhere near the water, our vows had floated downstream with the tackle box and a couple of life jackets.

And I’ll never forget the time I hauled my sister and her horse to a rodeo. Between the two of us, we had a combined total of zero backing skills. We circled that fairground like two women looking for the drive-thru at Dairy Queen. Eventually, we found a parking spot where we could pull straight through, and we swore we’d never leave until everyone else was gone, just in case we had to back out.

Men, of course, back up trailers like they’re conducting a symphony. One hand on the wheel, coffee in the other, radio playing classic rock, and somehow the trailer glides in perfectly, like they’ve been rehearsing since kindergarten (or like I mentioned before, in the womb).

Women, on the other hand, go through the five emotional stages of trailer backing:

1. Confidence: “How hard can it be?”
2. Confusion: “Wait… why is it going that way? That’s not how I turned the steering wheel.”
3. Panic: “Is that smoke or just my nerves burning? What was that strange crashing sound?”
4. Despair: “I’m never going to make it.”
5. Surrender: “I’ll just unhook it and push it by hand. Now how do you unhook the trailer from the hitch? Does this safety chain actually do anything?”

But here’s the thing. Backing up a trailer is a lot like life after fifty. You’re not always sure what’s happening in the mirrors, there’s some mysterious beeping you don’t understand, and occasionally you end up sideways in the middle of the road. But with enough patience, a few colorful words (like red, orange, etc) you can straighten everything out.

So, to every woman who’s ever circled the rodeo grounds three times looking for a pull-through spot, cheers to you. Someday we’ll may master the art of backing up, and if we do, the men better watch their mirrors. Because we’ll be right behind them, straight as an arrow, calm as can be, and looking fabulous doing it. If we never master backing up the trailer or even backing out of a tight parking spot at the grocery store without looking like we’re signaling aircraft, that’s okay.

There will always be a kind man in a ball cap with a toothpick and a “Git ’er done” attitude, ready to lend a hand. Bless him; maybe he’s one of those angels they talk about in the Bible, just a little rough around the edges and smelling faintly of motor oil.

I still park where I can drive straight through when possible. That’s wisdom, not weakness. Because while some folks can back a trailer, I can back a friend, a dream, and a small child selling cookies. And I can get out of sticky situations, just as long as there’s a forward exit.