Jeff Wyatt's Musings:
The New Definition of "Dutch"
By Jeff Wyatt
Spring 2007

It was a true New York first date. I arrived at her place casually around 8 p.m. and we took a cab from SoHo into Chelsea for an 8:30 meal, which stretched on until about 11:30. We shared a great deal of conversation over those three hours, not to mention two bottles of wine and a litany of food. It was amazing to be on a date with someone who actually held my interest for the entire evening. The awkward pauses, the blank stares, the eyes meandering to other people’s dates never materialized. It was simply simple. First dates are never this easy or enjoyable.

Despite its inevitability, I am still rattled when I realize I have to tip the waiter ninety dollars at the end of dinner. Maybe it is my modest Midwest upbringing; an upbringing of moderately priced restaurant meals being a splurge and the common courtesy of a twenty percent tip for adequate service. I secretly wager that it is because my parents only frequented one restaurant when my brothers and I were growing up. They knew that one day we would make a scene and the only thing that would save them from complete humiliation was having the wait staff know an appropriate tip awaited them. 

This proved to be quite the perspicacious P.R. move on my parents’ part. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a pair of dentures thrown into a 70 year-old woman’s cleavage, but at age 11 it seems a perfectly acceptable tableside practice. Those twenty percent tips came in handy that night.

As I reached into my coat pocket, and was ready to kiss that new iPod goodbye, a funny thing happened on the way to the forum, the forum being the waiters’ hand, that is. Before I could retrieve my card she had already placed hers into the waiter’s possession and off he went. I stared at her blankly for a moment, the first silence of the night between the two of us. She did not let it linger. Her explanation could not have been any simpler: “I don’t care. I asked you out. Deal with it.”

I was floored. Not only was that shiny new iPod back in my life, but a new definition of “Dutch” was introduced to me. I am sure my grandmother was spinning like a rotisserie chicken in her grave at the notion of me not paying for a first date; she who spent countless hours instilling in me what it means to be a gentleman when out with a woman, simple courtesies: order for her, pull out her chair, stand when she leaves and arrives at the table, and most of all, pay the bill! And here I am, kicking back and saying to myself, “This feels pretty damn good. I could get used to this. Do I have to put out now?” 

Because let me tell you, I’m not that kind of girl…

As I was kicking back and allowing myself to be treated to this exorbitantly priced meal, I came to a frightening realization. This is how women are planning on taking over the world! From birth we, as men, are genetically predisposed to being taken care of by a woman. We are feeble, weak, and exceptionally co-dependent. By “being the man” we could easily lose our power to women. As a whole, the male species would love to subscribe to our own lethargy. If we had to do very little work to be afforded the same comforts we are accustomed to now, we would succumb at the drop of a hat. But, the question remains, could I realistically go from wearing the pants in a relationship to wearing a super cute new pair of culottes? 

The resounding answer was an unequivocal, “Hell yes!” 

And why am I okay with that? First off, I have great legs, compliments of my grandmother, and can rock a pair of culottes better than any man should. Secondly, I honestly don’t care. Being “the man” in the relationship is just fodder for insecure pricks or those who are so entrenched in the way they think it should be that they lose sight of how it could be. Here I am, dating a wonderful woman; we have amazing conversations, compliment one another very well and most importantly, we challenge each other. That challenge is the sexiest thing about her. Not the attempt to impress her, not at all. But, the allure of being even more of a man than I am now for her. None of which requires me covering a tab. 

It is simple to stay even in our relationship. I generally cover the small things and a few select nights out, but when she wants to take in an opera or the symphony, she takes care of it. That is the wonderful thing about this, when she wants to do something, we do it. I couldn’t be happier to be rid of my “male ego” as it were. Being on equal standing with the person you are intimate with opens so many doors to a relationship. I have dated one too many women who leave the decision making process up to me. Yes, it is okay to defer from time to time, but when she never makes a decision, that’s when I make the decision that I am better off without her. 

So let us recap here: I have admitted to being the one too timid to make the first move by being asked out by a woman for a first date, been paid for on said date, and let all of you know that I have sported a pair of culottes in my relationship. But, I still feel like a man. I still know my “man” part works. Not that part you sick-minded pervert—my right thumb, the one that controls the remote. I don’t care how many dinners she covers in our relationship, or holidays we enjoy together on her buck, there is one portion of my manhood that is not up for sale or dismissal, the ability to change channels.

If you think I am stupid for holding onto that one last sacred piece of guy-dom, I have one simple statement for you. It rings absolutely true in allowing myself to not be “the guy” in my relationship, and just as true in relation to my opposition of my remote being controlled by estrogen: “I don’t care, deal with it!”

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