I used to date a man who had old world manners to accompany his old world charm. He always held the door for me, both in the world of walking and when we rode in a car. When I complimented him on this, he told a story of his best friend whose boyfriend repeatedly complained that she slammed the car door when she got into his passenger seat. She asked my then boyfriend—“so is he right? Do I slam the door when I ride with you?” My friend smiled and replied, “Have you ever touched your own door handle around me?” And she realized she hadn’t. When she rode with him, he opened the door, waited patiently until she was settled inside, and then closed it, softly, behind her. No slamming involved.
I love it when a man—or a woman—opens a door for me. There is something about that moment of mindfulness, that attention to detail, that little pause, that feels wonderful. I feel acknowledged, cared for. And I feel as though there is hope for the planet. Okay, that may sounds like a bit of a leap, but seriously. It feels as though there is hope for the planet…
