"What’s this do?"

My poor friend Diane flinches involuntarily whenever I pause next to a mysterious switch, button, door or handle. She knows what the next words out of my mouth will be:
uttered as I reach toward the captivating object of my attention. Usually, the scene ends with her grabbing my arm to physically pull me away from the switch/button/door/handle before I get us both in trouble. We laugh about it, but it’s a weird compulsion for me. I always want to know what’s behind the curtain, even if it is just a short bald guy with flat feet and no charisma.
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