By Mark Bauer/editor-in-chief
Once I got my first car in high school, my older, much wiser sister groomed me for the dating scene I was about to burst onto.
I’m not talking about grooming as in clothing and cleanliness—I’m talking about the inner “me,” the part that would tell my date how nice she looked or how her freckles were as innumerous as the stars.
I’m not gonna lie. I did pretty dagum well with the advice my sister gave me. So much so that whenever I came close, doors practically opened on their own. It had nothing to do with the automatic sensors, it was my chivalrous aura.
Some of the things my sister stressed were addressing both the father and his shotgun as “sir” and never farting (unless it’s going to be a silent one in a well-ventilated area … that’s my own rule, not one of my sister’s.)
But during one particular outing, my date became offended at my overtures. She said she could open doors herself and pay for her own movie ticket. I was taken aback to say the least. It also made me wonder why I drove considering Ms. Independent had two completely healthy legs—which I’m sure could have, though inefficiently, gotten her to the theater.
No doubt about it, women are more independent these days. So does that mean chivalry is taking a backseat to pantsuits?
Despite men’s tendency to treat women poorly, unfortunately it seems more often than not, and women’s attempts to distance themselves from neediness, chivalry doesn’t appear as dead as people might think. Chalk it up to the hopeless romantic in me, but the overwhelming success of such movies as Titanic or The Notebook makes me believe women still want to be pursued. But if this means boarding a boat destined to sink in chilly waters, count me out.
What sparked all this chivalrous man-talk was seeing two college students in a gas station heading for a lake last week. The guy went out of his way to get the door for his lady friend. He also opened her car door. If the great crocodile hunter were alive and observing this in some nearby brush, “crikey” would be the only way he could describe this dying breed of a man.
But as I was leaving the gas station myself, it suddenly hit me. He hadn’t remembered the most important rule that dealt with “well-ventilated areas.” Still, at least he was opening doors.
