Midwest’s impressive sampling of first-time dates highlight Seattle-Man’s many retardations. From the middle-aged still at home to the over-sensitive verging on gay; from the wealthy desperate divorced to the forward furtive creeps, you all have at least this in common.
Gentlemen, I present you with:
Rule One. You Pay.
Germaine Greer was always an overbearing beast and Naomi Wolf sold out to the rich guy, so let’s get this straight: the women’s movement is over. It serves no further purpose in your thinking, at least for our goals here. Splitting the bill is for friends, not prospective (or brand spanking new) lovers. Let’s return to what we know works, not what a handful of over-educated tenured-types told us for a decade or so.
For our aims, guys need to demonstrate the ability to look after the woman. Of course in prior parts of our development this might have included dragging a bloodied buffalo home. These days our speared quadrupeds are green and beautifully illustrated with dead Presidents. So consider a visit to an ATM a modest form of hunting, and then for the time you’re with the woman use only the fruits of your hunting, and none of hers.
First-date disaster (courtesy painful Midwest experience of course) is to arrive in *bucks for a first date chai-mocca-caff, buy your own drink, and not offer to buy one for the girl. Gross error.
Guys, by breasting the bar, dealing with the barista and doing this single-digit-dollar favor, your chances of seeing her again increase many times. Not doing it means you’ll need to be B.Pitt of Hollywood CA. We don’t need to out-think this, friends, just buy her the froth, and you might just get yours.