I work, I parent, I volunteer, I pay bills. I maintain a home that I decorated. I budget money for current needs, plan for future needs like my retirement and The Child’s college education, and all the tutoring and test-taking and enrichment she’ll need along the way. I walk dogs and cats who live here permanently, and some who live here temporarily, and feed them and choose the food and call the vet when needed. I do laundry and changes sheets when I remember to. Sometimes I hire people to take care of some of these things, and sometimes I fire them; it’s a decision either way. When I want to relax, I plan a vacation that I’ve hopefully mostly budgeted for. And then there’s the car, with its payments and maintenance and gas and driving places with a GPS system that always seems to be missing roads that I want or need to drive on.
It all gets done, if imperfectly. I’m not complaining; I’m just trying to provide a bit of perspective on why a woman might not consider it thoughtful to receive an invitation to dinner that requires her to choose the restaurant.
My idea of a fun night out begins with someone else suggesting what we should do, followed by a few fleeting hours spent savoring the blissful freedom of not having to make decisions and be responsible.
Pick anything that isn’t sushi, and I’ll be ecstatic; pick sushi and I’ll pretend to be.
I’ll say please and thank you and what’s more, I’ll mean it.
Instead, I am offered the chance to research restaurants and offer suggestions for the approval of someone whose tastes and temperament I don’t know: You pick the place!
No. You do it.
I pull up a list of restaurants on Yelp, places I’ve bookmarked and have been meaning to try. I cut and paste them into a reply email: Thanks. Here’s a list of places.
Pick one.
He chooses the first one on the list.
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