Years ago, I was a "dance gypsy."
At least once a month, I would be on the road, going from one folk dance camp or weekend workshop series to another. I would head up to Cleveland for a swing dance marathon with veterans from the old Savoy Ballroom, or venture to Cincinnati to reconnect with my younger days, or even over the state line to Bloomington, Indiana. Along the East Coast, I went from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia, from Rhode Island to Rochester. I was quite the dancer, and like most of the men of my family, an incurable charmer. Sometimes it worked, and I would make the acquaintance of a young lady, who would be my occasional companion for the weekend. I should quickly point out that anything inappropriate would rarely happen, if ever. I wanted a friend. I wanted them to feel safe, to be safe, as the weekend would soon be over, and I would be gone for good. I preferred to be remembered that way.
It was at such an event -- it must have been in Ohio somewhere -- that I met "June." I had seen her over the years on the cajun and zydeco circuit. But whenever I asked her to dance, it was always, thanks but I'm sitting this one out (which didn't stop her from the guy coming right after me), or thanks but I've promised the next one. My fascination with that pursuit didn't take long. It was clear she had a thing for musicians, the taller and more bohemian, the better. But here I was in Ohio, and there she was walking right up to me like a long-lost friend. She had long dark hair, and eyes to die for. After we embraced, she asked me why I never made any effort to pursue her.
I was shocked by this overture, and as I was about to tell her in no uncertain terms, she magically transformed into a gnome-like creature, and turned away. I followed her, as if to press the issue. She would turn and stop, then run the other way. I was starting to get really tired of this when...
...I woke up this morning.
Now, the first paragraph really happened. The rest, only in a certain state of mind. ("June" is a real person, by the way.) But it brought back to mind, a piece I read three weeks ago. Right Wing News did a piece entitled "Interviewing Six Conservative Female Bloggers On Dating." This includes St Blog's own Dawn Eden, who makes a cogent point on the superficial aspects of the mating game: "Anybody can be Mr Love God for one night or one week or one month."
Honest. I had no idea.
I don't care how "liberated" or "career-oriented" she says she is. I don't care how much she complains about not having equal pay (a cliché that stems from the misleading use of statistics). In the twenty-first century, the woman still wants you to buy her dinner, hold the door open, take the lead, give her your place on the lifeboat when the ship is going down, whatever. They've got the best of both worlds, fellas, and they're still complaining. It would be nice if six guys of similar political persuasion got equal time. While we're waiting for that to happen (and for Hell to freeze over), Ace of Spades comes to the rescue, and provides his own analysis:
So, basically, if more women were like female bloggers... I (and most of you) shouldn't be able to leave the house without raincoat & rubbers for all the downpour of female attention and the splashing in puddles of adoring women... Which leads me to believe 1) women bloggers are nothing like normal women or most likely 2) women bloggers are exactly like normal women in that they lie their pretty asses off.
One more reason to give up "dating," in the way our culture defines it.