Dropping of the Check Winter Games 2020

“Is there anything else I can get for you this evening?” the server asks as he approaches the couple sitting at a small table for two. She appears to be in her early-to-mid twenties; he, in his mid-to-late twenties. They both shook their heads “no” and the server excused himself to fetch the bill.

The couple had spent intermittent moments throughout the evening alternating between direct eye contact and diverted shy stares at half-empty glasses of water. When perfect opportunities presented themselves, they would unleash their best, most well-rehearsed, sexiest, awe-inspiring smiles upon the other, hoping to be caught in the perfect light from the perfect angle. Occasionally, they each would scan the surrounding tables hoping to identify occupants who possess the potential for generating new topics of conversation in order to break up those awkward moments of silence.

After deliberating the intricacies involving recognizable body language with his co-workers, the server concluded they must be on their first, perhaps second date. He emerged from the overpopulated, cramped war room that was hidden in the far back corner of the dining room, just outside the swinging doors leading to the kitchen. He crossed the threshold back into the realm of fake smiles and patronizing agreement, hoping he wouldn’t be stopped along the way with annoying requests for ‘more of that delicious bread’. He approached the table and removed a leather-bound check presenter from behind his back. Looking at the young man first, he begins: “I’ll take that…” then intentionally turns to the young lady and finishes: “...whenever you are ready.” He then places the check in the middle of the white linen-draped table, ensuring both received an equal opportunity to take responsibility for it.

Several minutes passed as they finished the conversation they were having before being interrupted by the official “Dropping of the Check Winter Games 2020.” The check presenter, containing the paper evidence of the cost of doing business, remained untouched, stuck in limbo, trapped in an awkwardly suspenseful state of neutrality.

Eventually, he recognizes that one hand remains in her lap, the other resting comfortably upon the table as her finger caresses the stem of her now empty wine glass, twice-filled with what apparently was an $18 Pinot Grigio. “Doesn’t appear as though she’s going to be reaching for her purse any time soon,” he complains to himself. As he takes a moment to review the itemized bill he so gallantly took responsibility for, “A hundred and forty-five dollars?!” internally echoes in his brain. He tries to evaluate the quality of the evening thus far in an effort to predict how successfully it might end for him. Any of those who work in the financial sector recognize this as what’s called a ‘cost benefit analysis’.

“Was he seriously waiting to see if I would offer to pay for half of the check?” She anticipates asking her girlfriends when recapping the date the following day.

No, I’m just kidding, these are Millennials, remember? These are actually two self-entitled, spoiled brats who spend the majority of their time complaining about the dangers of plastic grocery bags, the global epidemic of straws killing billions of sea turtles, while they drink water from a single-use plastic bottle, making sure to constantly demonstrate their outrage over being unjustly offended by the opinions their Liberal Arts college professor convinced them were morally wrong, causing them to retreat into their designated safe spaces where they can cling to stuffed animals for dear life while trying to calm their emotional turmoil by drawing puppies and kittens with crayons from a box that mandatorily included over 1,000 different colors to appropriately represent the benefits of diversity, while sucking their thumbs as an overly-protective ex-hippy adult, who insists on performing nude yoga in the local park, inappropriately strokes their hair and softly hums songs from the Little Mermaid, while simultaneously contemplating which of the 3,700 genders a mermaid might self-identify as.

No, this couple spent most of the evening with their heads down looking through the window of their new device that cost nearly $1,500, comes with 258 gigs of memory and has a white apple on the back, which is now a portal into the only world they’re capable of interacting with for an extended period of time. He searches in silence, hoping to find that perfect meme, one he can share with her, which depicts the perfect sexual suggestiveness so he can monitor, then evaluate her response and potential willingness to participate in an act that is most likely illegal in some parts of the deep south where two cousins celebrate their wedding anniversary with Krispy Kreme donuts and Schlitz. One which will potentially help to ‘get her in the mood’ and steer the rest of the evening in the right direction for him.

She holds the phone at an angle a bent arm’s length away, ensuring the frame captures the correct face-to-exposed cleavage ratio. She tilts her head at the opposing angle to that of the phone, puffs out her extremely shiny lips as far as they will go without causing her to drool on herself, squints her eyes as close to closed as possible while still being able to see herself in the frame... click! “I look amazing!” she says to herself as she follows the ritual of posting her most recent self-inflicted glamour shot across multiple social media platforms with the press of a single button.

Now back to the equality of bill responsibilities imposed upon the dating community. Feminists nationwide can now rest easy knowing that servers everywhere are ensuring the traditional presumption of payment is now being distributed equally, eventually leading to the hopeful annihilation of such a destructive stereotype responsible for the humiliation and general insult to millions of women everywhere for decades past.

Dear Feminist, congratulations! You share the same inability to recognize several key factors as this “man” did when deliberating who should pay the bill. So here you go, an opportunity to learn what it’s like to formulate an accurate perspective after taking additional factors into consideration. Ready? Good! I hope you’re paying close attention.

She was invited to dinner by him, at a restaurant he chose, at a time/date and distance which he also chose, which individually implies that she is the guest and he, the host. More importantly, here are a few other major factors you didn’t bother considering. She spent 4 hours bouncing from one store to the next in search of an outfit that would be appropriate for the restaurant (once again for the slower people) that he chose. Eventually parting with $270 of her hard-earned money for said outfit. Then she separates herself from an additional $125 (if not more) for what’s hidden underneath the outfit! And what’s hidden underneath that? Another gift just for him. One that not only costs about $60, but also causes a great deal of pain, pain that would more than likely bring him to tears. It’s called WAXING. You’re welcome!! Let’s not forget about the hair, makeup, perfume, etc...

Some might argue that it was her choice to incur the expense of a new outfit and dedicating all of that time in front of the mirror trying to transform herself into Jessica Alba wasn’t necessary. She could have easily worn something that was already hanging in her closet or, could have had the courage to go makeup-free for that more “natural” look. But do men actually appreciate “natural beauty”? Or, have the images on social media, posted by all of the prostitutes, (oops, sorry) “amateur models” completely distorted their perception of what natural beauty is? Girls with lips so over-inflated they make pronouncing the word “perpetual” a potential death sentence, a forehead so shiny one would think they hired Mr. Miagi, himself, to wax on and wax off, hair manipulated into the form of a perfectly baked croissant which took over 45 minutes to arrange (ironically referred to as the “messy bun”) and successfully hiding 5 tracks of professionally highlighted hair extensions with a photo caption underneath that reads: “I woke up like this”. But did she really? Clue for the men reading: if you want to know what she really looks like, take her swimming on the first date.

Men, on the other hand, simply throw on a clean outfit, gel their hair, spray febreze down their pants and they’re good to go. Not nearly as much time or effort goes into their process of getting ready, which is why they look at a photo like this and genuinely believe it’s possible for a female to roll out of bed looking so perfectly put together.

But is that all there really is to it, for men? The above paragraph is the byproduct of several hours of reflecting upon all of the jackasses I’ve dated in the past (garbage man, Maserati Man, Mr. McMansion, Mr. Not So Perfect, etc…) and that seems to be a fairly accurate presumption of the amount of effort they all put forth. I knew there had to be men who put more into themselves because I’ve been fortunate enough to have met one before, my father. So, I felt like I owed it to men to do my due diligence to get a better understanding of the sacrifices men make on behalf of women. Turns out, everything men do, they do for women. They have been taught throughout their lives that women are attracted to men who are financially stable/successful and strong enough to protect them when uncertainty or danger strikes (sorry to all of you overly-sensitive, caramel-macchiato-drinking, non-competitive bike-riding, soy-boys who run like a bunny from the threat of violence). Just as men fail to understand the pressure put upon women, women also fail to recognize the pressure put upon men. The same way society has unrealistic expectations of women always looking perfectly presentable, turning a house into a home, and being a 24/7 super mom, men feel the constant pressure of having to provide for their families no matter what (take a hard look at how your man is reacting to not being able to work and provide during the outbreak of a global pandemic). Men will work tireless hours, sometimes in dangerous jobs, just trying to get ahead, trying to earn more money, or trying to ensure job security so they will be able to continually provide for their family. But let’s not jump that far ahead. We are talking about millennials who believe socialism will provide a utopia allowing them to achieve their destiny as the most skillful Fortnite player in the world, because socialism worked so well for Venezuela who’s citizens, who without food, were eventually forced to eat zoo animals as opposed to starving to death, because who knows, maybe giraffe does taste like chicken?

They want nothing more than an opportunity to hear a woman say: “Nice car” or “Nice abs.” Every minute they spend in the gym, every extra hour they spend at work, every stupid poem or terrible out of tune song poorly played on a guitar and whispered in their best John Mayer voice, is all done with one superficial goal in mind, to get the positive feedback/attention from women.

With that being said, who’s really to blame? Females for posting these photos of themselves being unnaturally “natural,” holding their gender hostage to an unattainable aesthetic, or men for desiring, or even worse, believing such sumptuous deception? Or are we too eager to hold one specific sex accountable that we fail to recognize the real question to be asked: how have we lost ownership of our most powerful force: our “self”?

The night eventually turns. The two are now standing 12 paces apart like two gunslingers in the wild, wild west trying to settle who tried to fuck the other’s horse. Eyes squinted as they stare each other down, the screech of a circling hawk is eventually faded by a slow whine from a slide guitar, tumbleweed bounces across her coffee table towards her bedroom as the sound of window shutters and doors slamming shut in avoidance of the carnage about to unfold. Would they make it that far? Clothes scattered on the floor outlining the same path of travel the tumbleweed had taken. He rolls over onto his back, covered in sweat, trying to catch his breath as he stares up towards the ceiling congratulating himself for a job well done. She, too, is covered in sweat (his sweat), staring up at the ceiling, but in disappointment as opposed to satisfaction. Does she complain? Nope. Does she tell the truth when he asks “how was it for you?” right before he “prematurely” falls asleep, assuming all is good? Nope. Who would have thought that all the work she put forth, all the money she spent, all the fussing that went into making herself look breathtaking for him, would all come down to 3 ½ minutes of awkward self-satisfying thrusts which were in no way mutually beneficial. It was as if he was trying to make a giant pizza by attempting to knead a 110 pound ball of dough with his entire body. She lies awake, uncomfortable in her own bed and unable to sleep due to the ear-blistering snoring coming from a selfish man who is no longer nearly as attractive as he was at the restaurant. Does she try to come up with a polite excuse to justify asking him to leave? Nope. Instead, she contemplates whether or not the buzzing from her vibrator might wake him up before she selflessly chooses to abandon her “need” for satisfaction and drifts off to sleep. Makes you wonder why there’s no such thing as “blue vagina”.

But according to ignorant feminists (and cheap men), it would be much more “fair and equal” to split the bill evenly? Thank you morally superior feminist gods! Thank you so much for ruining dinner.