05/01/00
THE LOST ART OF WOOING
I admit, I’ve had this subject in mind for quite some time now, but as I’m sitting here clicking away at the keyboard, I find myself in an embarrassing state of blankitude. Must be performance anxiety. Now it isn’t often the gal who says that, is it?
Over the years, I’ve gone on some awesome dates. I’ve gone on quite a few stinkers too. Some of the worst executed dates on the planet won my heart in spite of their inadequacy, and other dates dazzled me with charm in spite of resentful self acknowledgement that I was going on a date for me and not because I had any interest whatsoever in the fella. And some of my best dates did not result in anything close to love… not even lust. Some I felt, were painful wastes of Carbon which might have better been allocated to Amazonian Rain Forests… or Chicken Salad.
Odds are, if you want to impress a girl, then execution is going to play a big factor. If her thoughts and opinions on you were iffy before, they can be swayed pretty dramatically by your “Woo” factor. And no, I’m not talking about double pistol, flying in the air, wind blowing back my cool trenchcoat and still having an unbelievably good hair day kind of John Woo factor. I’m talking about “Woo.” The verb. The art. The magic.
I have great hopes that the gentle art of wooing is not dead. Please tell me that it hasn’t gone the way of the blue-footed booby, the C-cupped Korean booby, or the Irish Elk. Maybe I’ve read too much romance… not that harlequin shit, but Austin, Eyre, and Shakespeare. I’d like to believe it’s out there, but I think that somewhere between claiming equality and asserting our womanhood and feminism, we lost the right to be treated as ladies. We became feminists and forgot how to be feminine. Or maybe it’s just me.
And many men seem to have lost the sense that they needed to be gentlemen. Ok, I admit I’m not always the most feminine creature in the world. I burp and belch once in a while, get the hiccups and fart (though not all at the same time and I try not to do any of the above when I’m at church… somehow when I’m on a date I don’t always hold up so well).
I eat pizza in overalls and goofy slippers with my glasses hanging off my nose and I ignore the crumbs on my tank top and couch. Definitely not in courtship mode there, and I hardly believe that knight in white armor shit or that prince charming BS. But courtship and the art of wooing have still gotta be out there somewhere. Even the most butch chick in the world (hopefully not me) still wants to be treated like a lady.
I scratch a snow flurry of dandruff off my head trying to remember a date when the guy opened all the doors, walked on the outside of the street, brought me flowers, and pulled out my chair for me.
I feel like evangelizing in Times Square with a blaring bullhorn, “Men, be gentle… but don’t be pussies… learn to Woo!” Oh precious grasshopper, if they only understood how to be truly attentive, conscientious, and kind. Not to treat us chickly ladies like lead china or delicate flowers, but to really pay attention to the details. Not to plan everything out on the date to the matching dental floss, but to put forethought into the planning stages and let the woman feel comfortable, at ease, and safe to be with you.
Scooby Woo! Where are you?!
When was the last time you dated someone for longer than two months before you had their tongue down your throat? Whatever happened to courtship? Wooing takes patience. It requires strategy, time, and work. It’s being careful with your own heart and being careful with someone else’s. If you learn to master the Woo, even if you don’t win her heart, you’ll ALWAYS have her respect, and she’ll be plenty ready to pimp you to her friends. I mean really, does it get any better than that? And hell yes men, you know how women love to talk. You’ll have your game going on autopilot and women will throw flowers at your feet for the honor of being wooed by you.
But unfortunately, this is the wacked out 2K decade… and charm, wooing, and the delicate dance of courtship have been hunted nearly to extinction.
Le sigh, le sigh, le pant, le pant. Back to my overalls and duct tape sneakers, watching Gwyneth Paltrow lead the life I wish I had.