I find it incredibly difficult to stomach a woman picking up my tab.
Sure she might be the one who asked me out for the rendezvous but the elephant in the room will keep trumpeting and I will twitch and feel out of character. It’s how I was raised, I grew up seeing my dad taking care of my mom and I carried on the tradition.
Sometimes I feel crippled and a bit envious of men who sponge off women without a second thought. Men who will allow a woman to buy them meals, clothe them and even pay their rent and take it all in stride. It’s something I would never be able to pull off. I have a fierce genetic disposition that goes off like an alarm whenever someone other than my sibling volunteers to foot my expenses.
I was at Java Junction for a rendezvous last week. My date had communicated prior that she would be footing the bill, yet for reasons unknown to me I was uneasy. I got there and found her suckling on a straw dipped in a glass of milkshake, her legs crossed beneath her pink miniskirt and her hair blowing softly beneath her designer shades as if she were in a photo-shoot. We exchanged a few niceties and after I was settled in and rubbing my eyes through the menu she asked what I was having?
“I will have whatever you’re having.” I sang.
“No, seriously you can have whatever you like. I’m paying, remember?”
I struggled through the menu. She’s doing well in her life so there was no reason for me to worry about my expenses biting her purse yet as I went through the menu I was looking for something thrifty, something that didn’t spill over the thousand shillings mark. I dipped my head out of the menu to find the waitress standing beside me looking restless.
“I wouldn’t mind supporting a man who is handy in the house. You know, the type that washes whites separately and scrubs the kitchen sink with lemon.”
“Have you decided?”
“Rice and chicken wings,” I answered and my promoter went for mushroom chips and a grilled steak.
She removed her designer shades from atop her head and placed them on the table as if gearing for something. Her gaze raising to meet mine.
“Why do you always have a problem whenever I decide to buy you lunch?”
“It feels off.”
“Come on, it’s not a handout, it’s a gesture of good faith. You don’t see me despising the free lunch when you do it?”
The waitress came back balancing a glass of passion juice on a tray and placed it on the table.
“That’s because I grew up being told that, that was my role.”
“You’re a few classes behind the Kenyan feminist culture,” she smirked.
“The Kenyan feminist culture?”
“Yes, it’s all the rave right now and buying a man a meal is perfectly fine.”
“Huh. I feel there should still be a feeling of remorse. I know you’re itching to say fragile masculinity.”
“You said it, I didn’t.”
The waitress came back with our food and after we were done she brought the bill and placed it on my side. “See, even society agrees that the man should take care of things.” The waitress lowered her eyelids bashfully as my date reached for the bill.
“At least let me pay for the drinks, for the sake of salvaging my dignity?”
I removed my card and swiped and after the waiter had left I raised my glass. “To the revised Kenyan feminist culture?” Our glasses clinked and her lips parted.
“You know manhood doesn’t have to be tied to a paycheck. I wouldn’t mind supporting a man who is handy in the house. You know, the type that washes whites separately and scrubs the kitchen sink with lemon.”
I laughed wondering how long she would support such a man before she started resenting him. Until it becomes sexy for men to scrub kitchen sinks while the woman brings home the bacon I will pick the tab every time.
“I will pay next time,” I said, getting a boast of testosterone instantly.
“If you insist,” she mouthed.
Spending a man’s hard earned money will never go out of style, I thought.
Kisauti blogs at http://www.kisauti.com/