Manners

Back in my college days, I knew a number of women who were debutantes. Not to be confused with divas or prima donnas, I am talking about actual debutants as the modern day products of finishing schools – that somewhat nostalgic relic of antebellum society. While I got along with most of them, there was one in particular that really made me question not only the question of gender roles but manners in general.

“Sally” was a gal that I knew from school. I had a class or two with her and hung out with her socially only once or twice. The more time I spent in her company, the more I felt the need to distance myself. Sally was a debutante… and she wanted to make sure that I, you, and everyone else knew it! Sally was a product of particular rules, particular disciplines, and particular protocol that she firmly believed everyone, everyone, EVERYONE must follow. But even worse, she developed a strong sense of entitlement to her very core. She was, after all, a debutante! That meant, in her world, she was owed – OWED – a particular degree of respect and treatment. One quirk in particular that she imposed upon people involved the opening of doors. As a debutante, she believed that opening a door for herself was simply beneath her. She refused – REFUSED – to open her own door. And I learned this the hard way. There was one time that a group of classmates and I went to a restaurant to grab lunch one time. A rare treat in and of itself to a group of starving college kids, I agreed to drive her to lunch, as we were both going to class right after the meeting. Upon leaving the restaurant, we chatted as we walked back to the parking lot. Opening the driver’s seat door, I climbed in, fastened my seatbelt, adjusted the mirrors, started the car, and… she wasn’t there. Why? Because she was still standing outside. I checked to make sure the door wasn’t locked and told her that the door was open. She just stared at me with the most judgmental look as if I had just slapped her grandmother. “Seriously?” I thought to myself. “Just get in.” And there she stood… and stood… and stood… as if I had done the single most egregious thing ever. And yet, she stood. And like a sap, I turned the car off, unbuckled my seatbelt, got out of the car, walked over to her side, and opened the door for her. And throughout the rest of the day, I carried the resentment of feeling used and treated like a sap. I was done with Sally. No more. I didn’t need to be made to feel bad about myself just because I wasn’t behaving by her list of rules and regulations.

For some reason, the opening of a door has become the strangest determination of manners and social behavior. On the one hand, you have Sally – a prima donna who believes it is her right to avoid having that manicure jeopardized. But what about the flip side? There are times when I am walking up to a door, notice a woman not far behind me, and out of courtesy I open the door to allow her to go through. And yet, she doesn’t. Why? Oh sweet sufferin’ Sappho, because she is “Wombyn-empowered!” who doesn’t need some stupid ol’ man opening a door for her as if she is incapable of taking care of herself, opening her own door, working, lifting, etc. Why, by opening a door for her, I clearly must be wagging my pole-of-oppression in her face and one step away from trying to strip her of her reproductive rights!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

The reality? Most likely I just noticed “human being” walking up behind me and I was trying to be nice to the human being behind me – regardless of age, color, size, gender, or whatever.

Siiiiiigh.

I really resent this sort of a thing. Truly. Why is so much social pressure placed upon something as stupid (And it really IS stupid) as the opening of a door? Why should gender either create a sense of expectation or offense? For cryin’ out loud – it is just a door – not the first one we both have to walk through, nor the last.

Whether it be an invented-sense-of-entitlement or an invented-reason-to-take-offense, I don’t need either type of person in my life. Here… lemme get that door for ya. Oh… and don’t let the knob smack you in the arse! Then again… DO!

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