a bad case of reflectionitis.
28 August 2006
  Eating Meat
“I would be glad if he ordered for me.”
“Yeah right.”
"No, really. If my date ordered for himself, then said ‘and she’ll have the same’, I’d be glad.”
“That’s very traditional.”
“No, that’s easy. Obviously anyone who took me on a date would know I’m a meat-eater.”
“I wish I had recording equipment right now.”
“Seriously, guys. I’m not being extreme. It’d be very helpful if I didn’t have to order, and he did. That’s all. Not to mention, it says a lot if a guy is perceptive enough to know what I want. And of course, a guy wouldn’t try this at Chili’s or something. A very nice restaurant is where this would happen. And we all know he’s paying, so he might as well pick what I eat.”

I felt logical. I didn’t feel like I was stripping the female race of her dignity and independence. Or is that what it is? Am I reserving myself to old traditions in order to remain attractive to potential alpha males? I am. And for a second, that feels wrong. But I realize quickly that I’m in the right. If I want an alpha male, I need to open myself up to beta moments. Moments when I am not the head of household, moments when I’m not winning the bread, moments when I’ll also have the porterhouse steak. Perhaps, in dating, I am easily drawn to situations that alleviate confrontation. Which just so happens to mean that I take a submissive, easily-pleased role. I am easily pleased. I am submissive. I am certain that any guy who could afford to take me into an expensive restaurant overlooking a body of water or reeking of expensive wine and clean cloth, that I would be in good hands. I would be in the hands of a man who would order the wine, judge good wine service, make a brief yet meaningful toast to us, then reach his hand across the table to hold mine. This kind of man, the kind of man who I’d be head over heels infatuated with, could order my entrée. This isn’t because I’m old fashioned. This is because I’m conditional.

If you can handle the heat, stay in the kitchen. And order my dinner. Because anyone who can lasso me in close and pull out all the stops is more than equipped to make my decisions for me. I give that privilege to what I consider an elite and seasoned group of men. I don’t give that to an amateur on the first date. I don’t give that at the Cheesecake Factory. I give that to romance, chivalry, effort. There are moments when you know a man is doing something because it makes him feel like more of a man. He feels like an accomplished, successful, victorious man when he’s in the company of a beautiful woman. When he can be among the social elite, ordering the finest wines and rarest dishes. He can be a real man, with real clout, when his date’s gentle, lamb-like persona smiles humbly in his presence. He knows a thing or two about the right way to prepare a good cut of beef, he has already determined the kind of restaurant that offers the premium blend of traditional entrees with unique twists. He orders your dinner because he already knows what’s good. Just like he picked you, knowing what’s good.
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