This is an excerpt from the funny, feminist, dating memoir I’m writing, Amy Dates: Tales of a Tinder Slut. In times like these, it is crucial that we speak up and don’t tolerate misogyny in any form. Even on Valentine’s Day.
Especially on Valentine’s Day.
It’s Valentine’s Day 2023. I don’t want to be on a second date on Valentine’s Day but I also don’t want to sit at home alone so I’ve agreed to this elaborate dinner when we barely know each other.
The man spent the day cooking for me – braised beef short ribs in a red wine reduction, mashed potatoes and green beans with peach and pancetta, finished off with a homemade gluten-free chocolate cake. Except he called the green beans “haricots verts” in his text. I rolled my eyes.
Most of our conversation has been excellent up to this point, via text and during our coffee date. He’s a professor and neurodivergent, my kind of guy.
Also the kind of guy that can really rub you the wrong way if a disagreement erupts.
I lift another bite of scrumptious beef and “haricots verts” to my mouth as the conversation shifts to gender dynamics… he says a few things off the bat that irk me but most men do. They all need some serious education on the feminist front. But then he says, “if women had the brains, passion and ingenuity to invent, there would be more contributions from women.”
I’ve finished chewing my bite at this point, but swallowing takes effort. I get it down and look at him, “What about the thousands of years of oppression through patriarchy?”
“Well, that’s just it, that never would have happened if women were strong enough. It’s basic stuff: survival of the fittest…”
He’s not joking.
I start to feel queasy, and not from the beef. He’s mid-sentence but I interrupt and excuse myself, walk upstairs to the bathroom and sit down on the toilet.
What am I going to do? Am I going to ask this guy to leave? That’s what I want to do. I do NOT want to continue this date. I am NOT interested in this man and do not want him in my house. Ok, I can do it, I can tell him to leave. I don’t think he’ll get angry. I hope he doesn’t get angry.
I go back downstairs, walk into the kitchen and look at him. He’s got mashed potatoes on his fork. “I would like you to pack up and leave now, please.”
I love the steadiness in my voice. I love that I didn’t start the sentence with “I think”.
He’s upset but respectful. He packs up quickly, the makings of this elaborate meal he spent all day cooking disappearing into boxes and bags. He leaves the leftovers for me and the chocolate cake too. For a moment I feel guilty but I quickly dismiss it. Men need to learn and I’m prepared to teach. Misogyny will not be tolerated in my house.
I send him a kind and respectful text about an hour later, mostly to make sure he’s made the hour drive home safely. I’m a caring person. He doesn’t respond. The match on Tinder disappears and he becomes just one of my stories. The one about the brilliant autistic professor who doesn’t think women have what it takes to excel, deserving of a swift kick out on Valentine’s day.