Why we still care who pays for the first date

A dating scene in
Frances Ha
My friend Lily*, blonde, leggy, gorgeous, is the sort of
woman that men chase down the street to get her phone number. This
really happened after she locked eyes with a handsome gentleman in a
meaningful ‘missed connections’ kind of way while out strolling one
weekend. They made plans for a date. We were all dead with envy that
none of us had experienced this deeply romantic/ideal memoir material
kind of moment. The Big Date arrived and he not only took her to a
decidedly average pasta joint, but readily accepted her half-hearted
offer to go Dutch.
“He let me pay half which my traditional side balked at.
Though obviously as a bra burning femmo, I was conflicted” she texted
later about the date and we moaned back and forth, only half-seriously
about how to date “as a feminist” and how Germaine and Naomi would
surely have been giving us a transcontinental tut-tutting if they could
hear us.
No comments:
Post a Comment