The door-bell chimed. He was here. I smudged lip gloss on and jumbled some useless belongings into my purse, realizing what was about to begin. This was it. My first date. Off to the fabulous fried-food realm of Applebee’s, then to the glorious box office to debate which movie to sit in as our hands ponder the question of interlocking. I staggered up the stairs trying to look as put-together as possible, but horribly succeeding. He flashed me a crooked, but gorgeous smile as he shook my dad’s monster of a hand. I shot my mom a “get dad to stop rambling” look. “Well…You kids better get going”, my mom forced over my dad’s mumbling about all the shot guns he owns.
With a sigh of relief, I grabbed his sweaty hand in mine and dragged him towards the door. As his hand squirmed out of my death grip, he opened my front door and bolted out. At serious speed. Leaving me in the back, feeling forgotten. Glancing back towards my parents, they simply waved and smiled as the same thought ran through our brains. I was kind of left in the dust…and the only thing running through that boy’s brain was “get me outta here!”
Slumping down my drive-way, my head viewing the shoes I settled on after 20 minutes in the mirror, I replayed the scene of him sprinting down my driveway and debated whether or not I should convince him to tryout for track. My rerun was abruptly interrupted when his voice yelled, “Ready to have a good time?” I glanced up to where he stood. My heart creeping through my throat, as I saw the motive behind his act. The act showing he really did care. The act showing why he sped in front of his lady. The act showing the respect women deserve. The simple act of molding his hand to the form of a handle. A door handle. And at that moment, my perspective of a gentleman was formed. He opened the car door and took my hand to lead me inside. He treated me with such care, as if I would break at any moment.
Well duh! Now it hit me. I realized he had only raced me to the car because he had to make sure this task was carried out perfectly. As the door closed and he walked around the side of the car, I let out a silent shriek, feeling special and fragile, just like a woman should.
It was an unspoken “I want to because I care.” A simple gentleman-like gesture that told me he was humble, caring, and protecting. But now, I feel bad for the poor guys I’ll date after this gentleman. Living up to this kind of treatment isn’t easy. I believe men should always be gentlemen to all women. Whether this means opening the car doors, sliding out her chair at dinner, or simply allowing women to walk in front of them. Any simple act to show her how important and delicate she is, can make all the difference. So, if a man ever walks in front of me, he better be opening that car door, otherwise his doorway to my heart will be slammed shut.
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