I once went on a date with a man who wouldn’t even pay for my cup of coffee. In fact, I unwittingly ended up paying for his cup of coffee. I was 23 years old, and it was my first date ever. I had been in a relationship with the same guy since high school, way back when things were simple and you didn’t really date, you were just “going out with so-and-so”. When so-and-so and I broke up after I moved away for graduate school, I was stoked. I was in Los Angeles! And it was FULL OF MEN! So you can imagine my dismay when my first date ever turned out to be a disaster.
B. and I had met on an online dating site. We had agreed to meet at a nearby café, which seemed safe enough. I didn’t want to chance dinner, because there’s nothing worse than sitting across from a heinous jerk and watching him eat for 2 hours. Until I knew for sure that he wasn’t a total moron, I fully intended to stay as far away as possible from even the most casual dining establishment.
From the moment we met, the date was horrific. But the most horrific part was not the hideous black and red pleather motorcycle jacket he wore (no, he informed me, he did not ride a motorcycle). Nor was it the fact that he composed music for horror movies that nobody’s ever heard of. No, it was far worse than any of that. The asshole took my five dollars. He went to the counter to order our drinks (basic coffee for the both of us), which he paid for. I, being unsure of proper dating protocol as I was so new to the game, offered to pay him for my drink. I had only a five-dollar bill in my wallet, which I handed to him. He casually stuffed the bill in his own wallet and didn’t offer me change, which I was certainly expecting since my drink was only $2.50. So I essentially bought the bastard a cup of coffee. After I picked my jaw up off the floor, we sat at a table and made small talk, but it was too late; the date was dead. In my opinion, when a man doesn’t pay for a first date, that’s the beginning of the end.
Since then I admit that I have taken up a somewhat old-fashioned approach when it comes to dating. I like to be the one on the receiving end of phone calls, rather than the one making them. I prefer to be asked out by phone or in person, rather than by text-message. I like to have my car door opened for me. And I like my meal, movie or drinks to be paid for—well, at least in the beginning. No, I’m not looking for handouts, and I certainly don’t need anyone to pay for me, but the bottom line is this: I want to be courted. Now there are some that think this style of dating went out with Scarlett O’Hara. I have a dear co-worker who would get irritated with her boyfriend when he would open doors for her. As far as I’m concerned, you had better have sense enough to open that door for me…or that same door will be hitting you in the ass on your way out of my life.
Unfortunately, sometimes I feel that my view of dating contributes to the idea that a woman may not be seen as a man’s equal. When we allow men to open our doors, help us with our coats, and pay for our meals, do we somehow send the message that we’re incapable of doing these things for ourselves? There are many women out there who definitely think so, and insist on being equals in their relationships in every way—including paying for dinner and a movie. When I’m in a relationship, I definitely want to be seen as my partner’s equal. And if I’m not, I can guarantee that I’ll be kicking and screaming to make myself heard as I walk away. So how does one balance this desire to be treated like a lady with the need to be treated like an equal? Does treating a woman in a chivalrous manner set a precedent for inequality later on, both financially and emotionally?
I’ve tried reconsidering my old-fashioned ways, but unfortunately I just can’t seem to let go. Being treated like a lady makes me feel special, valued. Like the pleasure of my company is worth the price of a meal...or at least a cup of coffee. I have no problem pulling my weight after the relationship is established, but until then, I’d better not have to open my own door, or pull out my wallet. And if you take my five dollars, it’s over. For good. And you can take your ugly pleather motorcycle jacket with you.
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