Me Tarzan, You Jane. Oh, Boy
There are all sorts of books about dating and relationship advice. Some, like the “Rules,” advise women to play hard to get, though the authors got divorced, so what do they know? Others say to drop the coy act and be like Sheena, Queen of the Jungle. One even advised people to talk about their feelings and preface everything by saying, “I’m going to tell you how I’m feeling.” Is it any wonder that there are so many dinners for one?
Years ago, I went out with a male type from the “I’m going to tell you about my feelings” school of thought. Unfortunately, I made the faux pas of being twenty minutes late for our first (and last) date. I apologized while he launched into “I’m going to tell you about my feelings.” On some level, I understood. I would have been miffed, too, but it was only twenty minutes. Thirty or thirty five would have been different. When the check came, he expected me to buy my own lunch, which really killed it.
I don’t mind it when people talk about their feelings because it’s usually the ones who get featured on breaking news reports. I mind it when they are presented like a university lecture.
Then there’s that other thing that also falls under the “Don’t let this happen to you” category.
I learned about it while having coffee with an acquaintance. Prior to that, our conversations fell somewhere around, “Hi,” How are you?” “Nice weather we’re having,” and “Namaste.”
So I was surprised when she filled me in on her latest fling that consisted of the following: him going over to her house, eating her food and sleeping in her bed. Only Goldilocks fared so well.
One or two turns of that and most women would have kicked the Romeo out, boxers, shaving kit and all. Because with or without those silly rules, there’s got to be some pride, some suspense, some romance, courtship and intrigue. Besides, a guy who really likes his chick will do everything in his power to keep her, not everything in his power to be Don Juan, a Romeo and a gigolo all rolled into one.
“For crimney’s sake,” I said, “Why doesn’t he just take you out for dinner, even for a hamburger?”
“Because he can’t afford it,” she said.
“But he can afford a place to live,” I said.
“Yes, but he has doesn’t make that much on his job.”
The real reason? Because he doesn’t have to. From Gloria Steinem on down, we women have dropped the chute out of our expectations of men, just to say that we have something vaguely resembling one.
If that were me, that relationship would last about as long as the word “next!” would spring forth from my lips. And it is those kind of things that cause many women be happy living with their cats.