Chivalry is officially dead.
That’s because while chivalry was still alive (thanks to me) and I went around opening doors for old folks, people with walkers, delivery guys carrying boxes with both hands, attractive women with no ring on their left hand, children with autistic qualities, groups of soccer players, foreign dignitaries, and nurses carrying body parts ready for transplantation — no one said thank you whatsoever.
I think that’s probably why I’m done opening doors.
While chivalry was still alive and I was single-handedly responsible for all the open doors of goodwill throughout the greater Los Angeles area, there was no goodwill coming back my way. Mind you, I never reinstituted chivalry in Los Angeles to get thank yous. I didn’t recreate the French Romantic period currently being recreated on film by Sophia Coppola to be seen as a Renaissance man. I didn’t work out my forearms with painful and complicated wrist-lifts with 5 lb dumbells just so I could swing open doors in one full swoop and receive accolades that would bolster my fragile self-confidence.
No — I opened doors because I simply wanted to be that guy.
that guy (thAt g*eye, noun): one who is chosen over “the other guy” to be involved in any activities near or far that necessitate one more participant. one who is a tastemaker, fad-creator and confidant in a myriad of once-complicated situations. the one and only, that guy. “That guy is the shiznit.”
I don’t care about chivalry, although it might be attributed to my act of opening doors. I don’t care about notoriety, although causing chivalry to come back into fashion may very well be added as a line to my wikipedia entry thanks to the opening door fad. I don’t care about the “aww-factor” which usually accompanied the act of opening doors by others watching the door opening calvalcade. But what of the openees? Those on the receiving end of my door-opening goodness?
They couldn’t care less.
That’s why I’ve decided I’m done opening doors. So if you’re handicapped, using a walker, trying to open your apartment security door while carrying two bags of heavy produce from Whole Foods, blind, mute or deaf, one who walks with a limp, has a skewed equilibrium and is constantly dizzy, is short (like a midget, dwarf or circus freak) or simply appears to be a single woman on the prowl for a Hugh Jackman-esque gentleman of sorts who still opens doors in this day and age…
Because me and open doors are no longer bedfellows.