Sorry ladies, the men sending Venmo requests for bad dates is feminism
Today’s men have high expectations for dates. She mustn't weigh a pound more than her profile picture. She must be able to carry a conversation about all his favorite topics — like finance, anime, and fishing. She must be willing to spread her legs, sooner rather than later.
Men pay good money for their dates, so they expect a good return on their investment. If they’re not satisfied, sometimes they’ll ask for financial reimbursement. At least, that’s what a number of angry young women are reporting.
In a New York Post piece entitled “Cheap Bros Have Found a New Way to Get Out of Paying for Dates,” three young women seethe as they reflect on Venmo requests they received the day after a dud date. How dare these cheap bastards demand compensation for my 2 moscow mules, stale conversation, and zero sexual chemistry.
It’s a sad trend, the women imply, that men can be so petty, and that chivalry is dying fast, lying on the sidewalk with multiple stab wounds and voided bowels.
However, from a feminist perspective, it’s difficult to complain about splitting dinner bills even-Steven. If women truly want equality and empowerment, this might be exactly what it looks like.
After all, the dating traditions of men footing the bill were founded a hundred years back, when the gender pay gap was more of a pay chasm. Women were compensated less because it was assumed they were primarily supported by a father or husband.
Now that women are allowed to wear pantsuits instead of kitchen aprons and create thriving careers instead of Monday night meatloaf, perhaps dating norms should follow the lead of our socioeconomics.
The old fogies’ traditions — like not eating ass on the second date or foisting the full financial burden of that date onto the man — are outdated and in need of an overhaul. Just as millennials killed fabric softener, marmalade, the Canadian tourism industry, napkins, and the American Dream, they’ll soon become the death of chivalry, too.
Women are beginning to learn that the true cost of a bad date is more than wasted time. It’s the price of every overpriced cocktail you choke down to ease the social anxiety. It’s the tip you pay the waitress who cringed in awkwardness every time she approached your table. It’s the hours you spent slaving away at the office, wasted for this stranger you’d never let near your genitals.
The true cost of a bad date is a painful awakening. It’s not a change we can expect women to take on the chin. Unfortunately, my fellow feminists, it seems social justice doesn’t always work in our favor.