Side note: I originally wrote this for another blog about two years ago. If I remember correctly, it was written around the time I read My Horizontal Life by Chelsea Handler. You’ll get why in a second.
All I wanna do is move to NYC and drink cocktails at summer rooftop parties!
Brace yourself, readers (and by readers I mean both of you) I am about to go all Carrie Bradshaw on you. Not totally Bradshaw, though. I’m not very good with puns, and due to my severely pronating feet, my ALDO stilettos still have the price sticker on the soles.
However, I do date. And live in a city. And have an open forum to write about it. So, that makes me Carrie Bradshaw.
Recently, I’ve acquired a lavish dating life filled with men who own limos, financiers, sensitive furniture makers, politicians with urine fetishes….sorry, that’s the real Carrie…a woman can dream, though. My actual dating life is a lot less Cosmopolitans and business suits and more Bud Lites and dockers, but the problems remain the same. My biggest problem mostly revolves around the issue of dinner.
What part of the dinner date perplexes me? Definitely not when it comes to the menu. I have no problem ordering something like a sloppy joe and eating it like a cavewoman.
No, no. If a man can’t accept me when I have brown sauce resembling poo on my face the date might as well end there because gross eating habits is one of my many charms.
Many. Many charms.
The big problem lies with the check.
I love a free dinner. I enjoy food so much more when I know someone else is paying for it. Usually on dates I allow my date to pay if he offers. Of course I put up a half-hearted fight. “Ohhh, are you suuuuure? Really, it’s fine if you want to split it…I got two drink, lobster, and dessert– I feel baaad….”
I don’t really feel bad.
However, I have begun to realize that apparently men expect “things” if you let them pay for dinner. This was brought up to me recently by a boy (and the operative word here is ‘boy’) who after buying me dinner made some inappropriate advances on a second date. Perhaps they were appropriate advances for a Samantha Jones, but I, as previously stated, am a Carrie. After denying these advances, I was promptly called a tease.
This was perplexing. Last I checked I did not mention at any point in the evening, “Shall we move forward with some feverish love making?” So, I was confused as to how he was under the impression that dessert was to be served bedside. And then I realized:
He bought me dinner! So, clearly there is no such thing a gentleman anymore. Apparently, some men find women to be less than prostitutes. Prostitutes get cash, whilst women are supposed to accept a steak. This won’t do.
The other option is splitting the check (me paying for him is not on the table. Not that women shouldn’t pay for men if they want, because I’m all about the feminism. I’m cheap first and empowered second). The problem with splitting the check is now your date thinks you don’t like him and just want to be friends. Or at least that’s my excuse for not insisting on going halfsies.
The way I plan on dealing with this dilemma is allowing my dates to pay for me and just take the name calling. Yes, I could just split the check, but I’d much rather save my money for some Jimmy Choos. Sticks and stones may break your bones but at least I can afford the hospital bill.