Every year when I brought my chain saw in to be serviced and have the blade sharpened, Reggie tried to get me to buy a set of chaps. They weren’t cheap, and, while I was not the least bit sanguine about the destructive power of the saw, I used it infrequently, only in good conditions, and with care. The chaps were a garish orange, and I always declined. Reggie always shrugged, looked disgusted, and rang up my bill.
A few years ago, when he made his usual offer and I declined, he looked at me for a very long moment, and then said:
“If you cut your leg off, doc, I’ll have to find another doctor.”
I tried to make light of it: “Don’t worry Reggie. My job isn’t physical and I don’t think or write prescriptions with my leg. I’d still be able to be your doctor.”
Another long pause. Then: “Yeah, you’d still be a doctor, but every time I come in, I’d see that you have only one leg and it would remind me that you were too stupid to use chaps. And I don’t want a stupid doctor.”
I bought - and now faithfully use - the chaps.