The Audacity of Modern Courtship

What in the actual hell happened to romance?

I'm not asking for a man to ride into town on horseback, recite Shakespeare beneath my window, or challenge another gentleman to a duel in defense of my honor. Although... I must admit, I would object to none of these.

I'm simply asking for a date. An actual date. With a time, a place, and preferably a reservation that I did not have to make myself.

There was once a time when men crossed oceans for the women they loved. They wrote letters, composed poetry, and traveled great distances for the privilege of holding a woman's hand.

Today, a man can barely cross town.

And wouldn't you know it? I have a story to prove it.

A French Macaron and a Gross Miscalculation

I once dated a gentleman for approximately three months. And I use the term gentleman rather generously, as I'm trying to be a better Christian.

Things started promisingly enough. He invited me to soap box races. SOAP BOX RACES.

How wonderfully peculiar! A man with a plan! An eccentric activity! Something that didn't involve listening to anything involving bitcoin.

I was smitten with the idea.

We ended up at a concert instead, enjoyed a few too many cocktails, and somewhere between the final encore and my deteriorating judgment, I broke my one cardinal rule.

NO SLEEPOVERS.

A rule established by a woman with standards and promptly disregarded by that very same woman after several beverages.

But I remained strong. Or at least I continued telling myself that.

What followed was several weeks of almost nothing. A little communication here, a vague suggestion there, and naturally, my interest only grew.

Apparently, despite being a reasonably intelligent woman, I possess the unfortunate ability to mistake inconsistency for intrigue.

Then, just as I was beginning to question my sanity, he returned from France with macarons. FOR ME.

This man had traveled internationally, purchased delicate French pastries, and transported PERISHABLES across the Atlantic Ocean with yours truly in mind.

I was beside myself.

Was it a marriage proposal? No.

Did I briefly consider whether our children would have dual citizenship? Perhaps.

Things began to feel easy, casual, and rather lovely.

Until one fateful evening when, in front of an entire dinner table, this man decided to rein me in. HARD.

The kind of public "affection" that makes a woman want to rip your throat out.

I tried to remain composed. I reminded myself that one red flag did not constitute my wrath.

But he knew. He knew he already had me. And apparently, he considered that the successful completion of his romantic obligations.

The Curious Case of the Disappearing Gentleman

Suddenly, the man who had once invited me to soap box races could no longer be bothered to make a plan.

Our dates became invitations to his house.

Not dinner. Not a concert. Not even a walk around the neighborhood to admire the local landscaping.

Just the generous opportunity to drive myself to his residence.

How thoughtful. A self-service relationship.

Now, I'm all for a quiet evening at home. But there's a difference between spending quality time together and being treated like an Amazon package with the added responsibility of delivering itself.

So I began pulling away.

And wouldn't you know it? He noticed!!!

He even offered to come see me. FINALLY.

Perhaps there was hope for this poor, empty soul.

Until precisely 1:32 in the afternoon, when I received a text informing me he would no longer be coming.

He was too tired.

At 1:32 p.m.

Now, anyone that knows me knows I am an enthusiastic supporter of a good nap. But if the prospect of driving across town requires a recovery period, I have serious concerns about this man's cardiovascular health.

That was it.

My final straw.

Funeral arrangements were pending on this short lived "romance".

Flowers for the Funeral

We already had dinner plans, and several days beforehand I decided this would be our final engagement.

My girlfriends suggested I simply change our reservation to drinks. A reasonable proposition, except for one minor inconvenience.

I had skipped lunch.

And I certainly wasn't about to consume the amount of liquid courage this conversation required on an empty stomach. I'm impulsive, not irresponsible.

So off to dinner I went, armed with a rehearsed speech my best friend and I had role played, and a newly acquired pair of metaphorical balls.

And there, waiting for me, were flowers.

FLOWERS.

After three whole months.

The very day I finally grew a big enough pair to dump him, this man decided to visit a florist.

I nearly asked whether he had received advance notice of the funeral.

I sat down, admired the bouquet, and proceeded to enjoy my appetizer and entrée while discussing every inappropriate and controversial topic I could possibly conjure (a charming little habit of mine when I'm nervous).

And somewhere between the main course and my impending emotional collapse, I began to question everything.

Was I being too picky? Too dramatic? Were my expectations unreasonable?

After all, he was a nice guy. He had brought me macarons from France! And now flowers!

At this rate, another six months might have earned me a dinner reservation.

I needed divine intervention.

Or at the very least, a pep talk.

The Lord Works in Mysterious Restrooms

I excused myself, where I proceeded to conduct a motivational seminar in the mirror in a seemingly empty restroom.

Quoting Emmy Meli, thank you for your service dear.

Just as I was beginning to feel like a woman capable of tough conversations, there was a knock at the door.

A gentleman needed to clean the restroom.

And because I have apparently never encountered a stranger I didn't consider a potential confidant, I decided to ask this man for relationship advice.

Here was a hardworking individual who had presumably arrived to clean toilets and was now being asked to weigh in on the romantic expectations of a woman he'd known for approximately eleven seconds.

And do you know what this wise, unsuspecting gentleman told me?

"I'd cross an ocean for a girl with an ass like yours."

Well... Not exactly a passage from Song of Solomon. But the sentiment was appreciated.

Here stood a complete stranger, armed with cleaning supplies and an unshakable confidence in my backside, willing to cross an entire ocean.

Meanwhile, the man I was dating couldn't cross town.

If that wasn't a sign from above, I don't know what was.

I thanked my newly appointed counselor and returned to the table with the courage of a woman who had just received a rather unconventional blessing.

And then I word-vomited.

I blamed our conflicting schedules. I reassured him that he was wonderful. I apologized so profusely you'd have thought I was confessing to a felony.

And finally, I managed to explain that perhaps I was simply looking for more.

More intention. More consistency. More effort.

And do you know what this man said?

"What you're looking for doesn't exist."

Oh.

Well, isn't that something.

Here I was, thinking I wanted a gentleman who occasionally made dinner reservations and possessed the physical endurance to drive to my house.

Apparently, I was searching for Bigfoot.

A sentar perhaps?

A man capable of planning an outing without requiring administrative assistance.

How terribly ambitious of me.

The Audacity of Having Standards

I've thought about that conversation more than I'd care to admit.

Not because I regret ending things, but because somewhere along the way, we've managed to make genuine effort seem like an extraordinary act of heroism.

When did consistency become a luxury? When did thoughtfulness become an unreasonable expectation? And when did women start feeling guilty for wanting to be courted?

Now, ladies, we're hardly innocent in this romantic catastrophe.

We've become so accustomed to playing it cool and pretending we don't care that expressing genuine interest practically requires a signed affidavit.

Heaven forbid we look too eager.

But I refuse to believe that romance is some obsolete notion best left to Jane Austen novels and black and white films.

I don't need perfection. I don't require extravagant gifts or elaborate declarations of affection. Again, I wouldn't object.

I simply want someone whose actions reflect his intentions.

Someone who makes an effort because he wants to, not because he's suddenly realized his romantic privileges are about to be revoked.

I don't want to have to leave someone to discover what it feels like to be pursued by them.

And despite my rather colorful adventures in modern courtship, I remain an unapologetic hopeless romantic.

I believe in marriage. Commitment. Handwritten letters. Slow dancing in the kitchen. A man who opens doors, keeps his word, and remembers that the pursuit shouldn't end the moment he believes he's won.

Call me old-fashioned. Call me delusional. Call me a woman who has watched The Notebook one too many times. I refuse to believe that wanting to be loved well is asking for too much.

So gentlemen, a little unsolicited advice.

Make the plan. Keep your word. Buy the flowers.

And for the love of all things holy, don't wait until she's halfway out the door.

Because the flowers really were lovely.

The timing was tragic.

And the man cleaning the bathroom had better game.