“Life is not so short
but that there is
always time enough
for courtesy.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

I don’t recall her name. I have no recollection of where we met. What I do remember is that it was the worst date of my life. For the purpose of this article, I will refer to her as Heidi. 

I was about 28 years old at the time — single and not in a relationship. Somewhere in my travels around the Santa Clara Valley, I met Heidi. I’m usually pretty good about remembering names and where I first met someone, but in this case, I draw a blank. I apparently was attracted to her, because I invited her out to dinner, and she accepted.

On the evening of our date, I pulled up in front of her Los Gatos home, parked my VW bug in front of her house, got out, and walked up to the front door. I don’t recall having to wait, so I’ll assume she was ready to go. This is the point at which my memory kicks into “vivid” mode.

As we approached my car, I unlocked the passenger side door with my key and opened it for Heidi. Once she was comfortably seated, I began to close the door. At that moment, her right arm shot out straight to her right, preventing me from closing the car door. As she did this, she continued to look straight ahead with no emotion whatsoever on her face.

“I am more than capable of opening and closing a car door myself,” she announced bluntly.

After the initial shock of her statement, I walked around the back of the car and got into the driver’s seat. The first thought that crossed my mind was to get out of the car, walk back over to the passenger side, and just stand there, assuming that, at some point, she would get the idea, open the car door herself, get out, and go back into her home. I didn’t do that. Instead, we went on our dinner date, as planned.

The fog of the evening returns as I have no recollection of where we went to eat or what I ordered. All I know is that when the meal was over, we returned immediately to my car. I opened the driver side door, got in, and unlocked the passenger side door. Heidi opened her door and got in. I drove her straight home. When we arrived at her house, I didn’t bother to get out of the car. I thanked her for a nice evening, she departed, and I drove off. Needless to say, I never saw nor heard from Heidi again.

In my formative years, my father taught me some basic social skills, which I practiced with my family when we would go out. I would open the car door for my mother, and even for my sisters. It wasn’t because I thought they were incapable of doing so themselves. It was simply a matter of courtesy.

Theodore Roosevelt nailed it when he said, “Politeness [is] a sign of dignity, not subservience.”