Once upon a time when courting wasn’t just for the birds.

Many of us grew up hearing rosy tales of how our persistent fathers wooed our stubborn mothers relentlessly until they finally caved and let them in. We sat huddled around our mothers’ knees listening to how her indifference spurred him on and eventually out of pure irritation she agreed to hear him out. We’d doze off fantasizing about the day when we’d finally reward that special someone for several months of grandiose courting. Playground crushes disguised in shoves and kicks, and high-school love stories masked in “I hate you” notes passed around the class were signs to keep hoping, that one day love may sweep us off our feet. After over two decades of holding my breath, I’m blue in the face waiting to be surprised. Perhaps a result of my Gemini impatience, lately I’ve found myself attacking first. I am way past the years when I coyly waited around for a guy to finally take notice of my vixen eyes and want me. Perhaps the most valuable love advice I’ve heard was from my sister, who told me that a guy will never be more into me than he is at the beginning. Based on that theory, if the courting is non-existent, then most likely the relationship will be too.

Very often the first night is the only chance you get. Unlike the ‘Love Years’ in which we were all conceived, twenty-first century love has become somewhat of a business. The first encounter is both the interview and the employment, i.e. if you don’t give him any, you won’t be getting a call back. Once upon a time, holding out on physical intimacy was a sign of self-respect and dignity. It used to indicate that you were something worth waiting for, worth pursuing. Now, those who hold out are a very small minority, and as a result men have so many alternatives that they’d rather not waste their time waiting for something that’s not guaranteed. Twenty-first century women are forced to be very strategic when it comes to dating. There’s so much walking on egg shells lest we should spoil the only chance we get… you can’t ask if he’s seeing someone on the first date, nor his opinion on relationships although heaven knows you want an explanation for the stiletto boot hanging out of his wardrobe… you courteously ignore the fact that when he’s with you he switches his phone off, or screens his calls and find comfort in the false truth that he doesn’t want friends interrupting your special moments, while in fact he hasn’t found a suitable enough lie for his significant other… and those are the fortunate ones.

Most of us go through the interview/date, follow the strict guidelines provided by successful dating 101, and leave the date with the glow of someone who just landed their dream job. The goodbye kiss, the exchanging of phone numbers, the fluttering butterflies clouding your judgement are all apparent signs that things went well. Until of course, he never calls, or worse yet you are the victim of the infamous conscience call. The call a guy makes when he knows you are unavoidable. Whether you share mutual friends, work together, or were set up by a relative, you make him uneasy to the point that he is obligated by conscience to let you down tactfully. You know you are the victim of a conscience call when:

a. he calls and concludes the conversation by saying, “I just called to say wasup” and gives no indication that he intends to see you.

b. he concludes the conversation by saying “see you around (or soon)”.

c. he texts and very formally thanks you for your company

d. he calls only after seeing your 3 missed calls.

e. you send him a flirtatious sms (or two or three) and he responds and says something like “Thanks for the message. I hope you are cool”.

Have our standards really dropped that low? I smelled a rat recently when a few friends and I were gob-smacked by a cordial young man who held the elevator and opened the door for us with a polite smile and not so much as a pick-up line as repayment. We’ve all just stopped expecting much from men … The only guys who ask for phone numbers and actually use them are very often the guys you only speak to after the fourth drowning-your-sorrows-tequila. The hyena-men, the ones that are smart enough to skulk around the bar looking for low self-esteemed women aided by vodka until they are drunk enough to be hit on by anything. So as we all slowly make our five-year pit-stop at the age of definition, the twenty-somethings, we are dealt with two options, a stalker sweetie who showers you with piles of attention and gallons of saliva, or a once-off ass hole who allowed you the privilege of touching him… once. If those are the only options we have, then I reckon it’s safe to throw in my towel now.