Dead Languages: Latin, Greek, CHIVALRY?!
I, Cass, have a recurring nightmare. I walk into a restaurant and the man I’m meeting leans on the table (elbows splaying everywhere, of course) penitent before his Crackberry, returning emails or texts, or looking at porn. And I slink into my chair with a curt greeting and wait five minutes for him to finally look up. Internally, I’m boiling because I can’t believe he watched me walk through the door and sashay all the way to the very back of the dining room and didn’t get off his Brooks Brothers ass and stand UP to greet me. I want to send him a text (because that will ensure he actually listens to me) reading: On your feet jackass!
But oh wait, that’s not a nightmare, because that actually happened. And nightmares happen when you’re asleep; and the aforementioned incident happened for real at about quarter after eight on a random/quickly forgotten night.
The nightmare part is this: I am fearful that my father will be the last man to stand when I enter a dining room. My father, the King of Troy, does this: he stands when a woman enters a dining room, approaches his table, or stands to use the rest room. He is a member of an endangered species, animus gentlemen. And though these days, they seem like a mirage, you may have seen these gentlemen floating around, albeit infrequently. Catching a glimpse of this dying breed is the equivalent of spotting a snow leopard in Washington Square Park.
They are the gray-hairs who hold the door open for you at Starbucks and insist you enter before them. They are the men who extend an arm and wave you before them as you approach the egg-beater doors of your office building. They are the men in their seventies that actually wear a real hat and tip it when they pass you on the streets, despite the fact that they do not know you. Speaking of hats, these men don’t wear them to the table, no matter how hung over or bald they are. They are the men who immediately reach for the check and silence you with a firm but polite, “please allow me.” They are the men who hail a cab and when they notice you a few feet from them with your hand in the air, offer to share the cab with you, or merely wave you in. They are the men who help you into your coat after a meal. They are the men who call to invite you out BEFORE the hour they’d actually like to see you. They are the men who do all these things and still believe you’re entitled to vote and offer an opinion on subjects other than top-notch recipe books and embroidery.
Haven’t seen them? Well, drawing on very recent events, I can tell you with total certainty:
They are not on the train Monday mornings. Fresh off a way too early flight, you shift your weight and prepare to step forward only to be run over by a fat, balding middle-aged man who was actually behind you and literally pushes you out of the way at the sound of the ding that signals the opening of the train doors.
They are not at the bar. You stand hovering behind a crowd waiting to order a few drinks and when the crowd thins, this guy in the formulaic way-too-shiny button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to reveal an obnoxiously large Rolex-like watch dashes in front of you (and simultaneously crushes your toe) to order his drinks. He doesn’t excuse himself. Then he turns around and proceeds to tell you how his equally hot, high-grossing Wall Street colleagues are in the back room; within three minutes he manages to slip in the fact that he only rides in town cars and takes home a six-figure salary, after taxes. Apparently, you haven’t been practicing your impressed face because after subjecting you to all of that, he doesn’t offer to buy you a drink.
They are not cheap. Just about every woman I know is familiar with this scenario and has had an unfortunate brush with it in some way, shape, or form. You get invited out by a guy who’s been chatting you up forever, at the gym or the bodega, in the elevator, whatever. He asks and asks or he asks once and you go. But the clincher is he asks you, and you agree to meet him for a drink. Or, if you’re lucky enough to have avoided the cheapness first hand, your friend says to you, “I’ve been talking to this guy and he’s out tonight, do you mind if we meet up with him?” So (exact scenario aside) you walk in and the-would-be-wooer is already there, has set up shop, is sitting side-saddle on a barstool. He doesn’t move (why would he – he already has a nice, tall, V&T in front of him), doesn’t offer to get you a drink, so you order your own, and you run a tab. And the bartender, who always seems to be more insightful than the man sitting next to you, puts all of your drinks on one tab. So, your (direct or tangential) evening with this guy passes, and the time comes to settle up the bar bill. And the would-be-wooer is apparently really comfortable because he doesn’t move; despite the fact that the bartender puts the bill in front of him. And with each passing minute, you’re getting more and more uncomfortable until you can’t take it anymore and reach over and grab the bill. You put your card down or whatever. And the would-be-wooer doesn’t brush it aside. Instead, he looks over your shoulder and touché…throws (literally tosses) thirty dollars at you, approximately half the tab; the tab that he obviously started WAY before you arrived, because you had one drink and he had ten. And if you’re the friend accompanying your friend to meet this guy she’s been talking to, the would-be-wooer looks at you, too, expecting you to add your requisite five dollars for the club soda you drank. Yep. He doesn't seem to be aware of the older than dirt tenet: when you're trying to woo someone, you may want to actually impress her and her friends, too. Then the would-be-wooer says, “well this was fun; we should do this again.” And you think, at least I hope you think, yeah, how about a quarter-to-never?
So, I, Cass, prophesize that chivalry is in the ICU - at death’s door - with only a handful of sages trying to resuscitate it. And I predict that I will tell you why this is in the next week or so.
P.S. I also predict that this little diatribe will piss off our male readers (all 2 of you - both are blood relatives), and I will receive lots of commentary that includes phrases like, “you chicks want it all.” To which I will respond, yes.
But oh wait, that’s not a nightmare, because that actually happened. And nightmares happen when you’re asleep; and the aforementioned incident happened for real at about quarter after eight on a random/quickly forgotten night.
The nightmare part is this: I am fearful that my father will be the last man to stand when I enter a dining room. My father, the King of Troy, does this: he stands when a woman enters a dining room, approaches his table, or stands to use the rest room. He is a member of an endangered species, animus gentlemen. And though these days, they seem like a mirage, you may have seen these gentlemen floating around, albeit infrequently. Catching a glimpse of this dying breed is the equivalent of spotting a snow leopard in Washington Square Park.
They are the gray-hairs who hold the door open for you at Starbucks and insist you enter before them. They are the men who extend an arm and wave you before them as you approach the egg-beater doors of your office building. They are the men in their seventies that actually wear a real hat and tip it when they pass you on the streets, despite the fact that they do not know you. Speaking of hats, these men don’t wear them to the table, no matter how hung over or bald they are. They are the men who immediately reach for the check and silence you with a firm but polite, “please allow me.” They are the men who hail a cab and when they notice you a few feet from them with your hand in the air, offer to share the cab with you, or merely wave you in. They are the men who help you into your coat after a meal. They are the men who call to invite you out BEFORE the hour they’d actually like to see you. They are the men who do all these things and still believe you’re entitled to vote and offer an opinion on subjects other than top-notch recipe books and embroidery.
Haven’t seen them? Well, drawing on very recent events, I can tell you with total certainty:
They are not on the train Monday mornings. Fresh off a way too early flight, you shift your weight and prepare to step forward only to be run over by a fat, balding middle-aged man who was actually behind you and literally pushes you out of the way at the sound of the ding that signals the opening of the train doors.
They are not at the bar. You stand hovering behind a crowd waiting to order a few drinks and when the crowd thins, this guy in the formulaic way-too-shiny button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to reveal an obnoxiously large Rolex-like watch dashes in front of you (and simultaneously crushes your toe) to order his drinks. He doesn’t excuse himself. Then he turns around and proceeds to tell you how his equally hot, high-grossing Wall Street colleagues are in the back room; within three minutes he manages to slip in the fact that he only rides in town cars and takes home a six-figure salary, after taxes. Apparently, you haven’t been practicing your impressed face because after subjecting you to all of that, he doesn’t offer to buy you a drink.
They are not cheap. Just about every woman I know is familiar with this scenario and has had an unfortunate brush with it in some way, shape, or form. You get invited out by a guy who’s been chatting you up forever, at the gym or the bodega, in the elevator, whatever. He asks and asks or he asks once and you go. But the clincher is he asks you, and you agree to meet him for a drink. Or, if you’re lucky enough to have avoided the cheapness first hand, your friend says to you, “I’ve been talking to this guy and he’s out tonight, do you mind if we meet up with him?” So (exact scenario aside) you walk in and the-would-be-wooer is already there, has set up shop, is sitting side-saddle on a barstool. He doesn’t move (why would he – he already has a nice, tall, V&T in front of him), doesn’t offer to get you a drink, so you order your own, and you run a tab. And the bartender, who always seems to be more insightful than the man sitting next to you, puts all of your drinks on one tab. So, your (direct or tangential) evening with this guy passes, and the time comes to settle up the bar bill. And the would-be-wooer is apparently really comfortable because he doesn’t move; despite the fact that the bartender puts the bill in front of him. And with each passing minute, you’re getting more and more uncomfortable until you can’t take it anymore and reach over and grab the bill. You put your card down or whatever. And the would-be-wooer doesn’t brush it aside. Instead, he looks over your shoulder and touché…throws (literally tosses) thirty dollars at you, approximately half the tab; the tab that he obviously started WAY before you arrived, because you had one drink and he had ten. And if you’re the friend accompanying your friend to meet this guy she’s been talking to, the would-be-wooer looks at you, too, expecting you to add your requisite five dollars for the club soda you drank. Yep. He doesn't seem to be aware of the older than dirt tenet: when you're trying to woo someone, you may want to actually impress her and her friends, too. Then the would-be-wooer says, “well this was fun; we should do this again.” And you think, at least I hope you think, yeah, how about a quarter-to-never?
So, I, Cass, prophesize that chivalry is in the ICU - at death’s door - with only a handful of sages trying to resuscitate it. And I predict that I will tell you why this is in the next week or so.
P.S. I also predict that this little diatribe will piss off our male readers (all 2 of you - both are blood relatives), and I will receive lots of commentary that includes phrases like, “you chicks want it all.” To which I will respond, yes.
posted by hobos in space @ 10:22 AM
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