When young, I thought I had learned all the cardinal rules.
Open the door. Help her remove her coat. Pull out her chair. Walk on the curb side. Pay the check.
Then, when I pledged a fraternity, they taught us more.
How to receive and pass dishes. Which silverware was for what course. When to unfold and replace a napkin.
I even tried to learn the art of romantic verse and delivered a few syrupy lines in the heat of attraction.
But much later, I must have misplaced my invitation to the next series of do’s and don’t’s, and I’m still having trouble making them second nature.
Put the toilet seat down. Roll over when snoring. Keep lights low and talk softly in the morning. Never spy the scale’s read-out. Don’t question memories in public.
Forgetting these new imperatives can be very costly,