It started last summer, when I was living in LXR sans meal-plan. My plan to take the GUTS bus to Safeway and cook my own food evaporated the moment I walked into Statistics with Exploratory Data Analysis. From that cursed day on, every spare moment was devoted to plotting regressions while murmuring, “O please dear God, Jesus, Allah, help me not to fail this class,” leaving me no time for my grand culinary plan. For about a week, my diet consisted primarily of microwave popcorn and the occasional Hershey’s bar from the first-floor vending machine.
Then I met the man who would change everything for me. He stopped me for directions on the way to the library. We made some awkward small talk, and he asked me to dinner. I was about to mumble an excuse when my thoughts flashed to the Orville Redenbacher that awaited me in my room. Ok, yes, he was a stranger, and no, I didn’t exactly feel butterflies, but really, what was the harm in a single meal?
One plate of chocolate crepes grand mariner later, I was hooked. Not on him, but on the idea of exploiting creepy strangers for free food. I know it’s not right. I’m supposed to be a liberated feminist who doesn’t need a man for anything, or at least a decent person who doesn’t use her fellow human beings as tools to satiate primal urges (right, and you asked me out purely for the pleasure of my company?). The way I see it, all guys have ulterior motives, whether it’s a long kiss goodnight or the chanceto sermonize about his topic of choice: for example, nuclear development in Iran. Face it—the only man who takes you to dinner solely for pleasure of you company is your dad.
It’s not that I couldn’t buy my own dinner; I always offer and am actually prepared to pay. But let’s be serious; he was a cardiologist and my primary income was book buy-back week. He was not seriously expecting me to pick up the tab. The more I thought about the idea, the more I liked it. After all, women still make 70 cents on the dollar to men. My thirty cents has to come from somewhere, and it might as well come in the form of bananas foster with a large chocolate milkshake. It’s sort of like grab-and-go for the needy, but with the dubious possibility of getting laid afterwards.
But when I casually mentioned my hobby to a friend, he was appalled. “That’s using people!” he cried. “And?” I thought. Men use women all the time. But my friend had a point. Indiscriminately punishing an entire gender for the sins of a few members is not cool. So I’ve established some boundaries: not every guy is fair game. Friends, for example, are off limits. As are nice guys—you know, the ones who really like you. However, guys who casually mention their jobs as international hedge fund managers or hit you with pick up lines such as “Is your dad a terrorist? Because you are the bomb!” are fair game. Ditto for any man old enough to be your dad, as well as the guy who name drops members of the Bush administration.
So if you want to wait around for the mostly-male congress to pass the Equal Rights Amendment before you get yours, fine. But I can’t wait with you. I’ve got a date for the chef’s table at Citronelle tonight.
