Armed with two tickets to a symphony concert, most men would suffer a fit.
Orchestra tickets are traditionally the gold standard of dating currency. They represent class, refined taste and the wallet to back up both of those noble characteristics.
Unfortunately, they also represent spending an evening surrounded by people who speak of events in terms of movements rather than quarters.
But a man will endure many indignities if he thinks they are likely to result in two hours with a woman he finds attractive. And women will generally endure many men to be able to say they saw 10 harps.
Imagine then, if you can, my surprise at learning that most of the women I would like to have taken to such a high-status event were all booked with tickets to an Orlando Magic basketball game.
I certainly would’ve had few problems procuring tickets to see the Magic — and fewer still suffering through one of their many ignominious defeats.
I can only hope I haven’t given away any great intergender secret about classy events, but when men discover that it’s easier to get a date to an NBA game than to see a bunch of tuxedo-wearing violinists from Turkey, I expect the arts center will have to be remodeled as a sports bar. When they do so, I’d like to offer one tidbit of advice: more restrooms.
Perhaps women are not to blame though; maybe they are so ill-prepared to be asked to such highfalutin events that when the opportunity does arise, they freeze and become incapable of speech — although I have found that happens even when I ask women to lunch, so maybe it’s just my delivery that needs work.
Most men would consider asking a woman to the symphony to be an easy transaction:
Man: I got these tickets to the orchestra . . .
Woman: Say no more; I have just the outfit.
But even as I capitulate some of my masculine desires in order to class up my dating routine, I am faced with resistance. Which takes us back to the delivery.
Something in my tone reeked too strongly of either desperation or cockiness. My problem is I can’t figure out which end of the scale I tilt toward.
Were the women repelled by my swagger? Was there a certain laissez faire pitch to my voice that said: “Who cares? Go with me or don’t. I have hundreds of women nailing themselves to crosses to have a chance at being in the same room as me and a bunch of oboes.”
I hope not because that’s not how I feel when I ask a woman out.
In fact, the words that echo around my cranium every time I ask a woman out sounds more like: “Of course, I understand. Naturally, you don’t want to go to the symphony with me. You’d be crazy. I’m certainly not interesting or good-looking enough to warrant a full two hours of your time. Maybe I should just give you the tickets and you can go with someone else.”
Of course, that’s not entirely true either.
But somewhere between the NBA and the symphony, tucked right in the middle of headstrong man and village weakling, are the answers to why I had such a hard time getting a date to an event that most women will fold themselves in half to attend.
Fortunately, my friend Janel, who can see the value of a room full of violas, was able to free herself up for the evening. It was especially helpful that she was there to tell me when to stand up and when to sit down and when to stop throwing paper airplanes at the pianist while asking my neighbors if they knew the score of the Magic game.
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