Let’s get one thing straight, right from the jump here: I am not a woman. (In case you were wondering.) I’ve never been a woman, never tried to be a woman, never walked in a woman’s shoes — although there was that time I wore heels, but let’s not explore that now. I never wanted nor intended to pat anyone on the head, to high-hat, to mansplain anything to anyone. I acknowledge that and proceed with caution and without condescension. I’m a man, and, if anyone really wants to call that into question, the fact that I indiscreetly scratch and spit and burp, the fact that I’m the son to a mother, and have fathered five daughters and am the brother to four sisters should erase lingering doubt. But in preparation for writing this column, I talked with, more importantly, carefully listened to, paid close attention to, observed many women who did more than approve what I’m about to present. Some of them urged me to do so. No patronization here, only regard and awe. Point No. 1 — they said th