All right, full disclosure: I once, very briefly, tried to play by the Rules. (I’m speaking, of course, about that bestselling book by Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider, which insists that if you act totally uninterested and unavailable, men will be tripping over themselves to hand you a giant diamond sparkler.) Some years ago, my best friend and I were both single at the same time. I was running through a list of dating grievances — my general awkwardness, the nine hours it took me to compose a single email, the absence of any blueprint for correct behaviour. Here my friend perked right up. “The Rules! You need to do the Rules!”
Let me step back a moment and say, on my friend’s behalf, that she is a terrifically smart and talented woman who has long been my go-to girl for advice. So while any number of feminist synapses were firing and flaring and begging me to stop, I still found myself opening my mouth to say, “Tell me more about these Rules.”
You know the deal. Don’t call him back for three days. No call lasts more than 10 minutes, and you end the call. Don’t accept a Saturday date after Wednesday. You end the date. And for the love of all things sparkly, DON’T PUT OUT. (I’m still a little fuzzy on when putting out becomes acceptable. I am, however, pretty sure it’s after a while — a long, long while. Which is fine, because in the Rules universe, women love diamonds but hate sex.)
Fast forward a few weeks from this conversation. I had gone back to school, and I was at some faculty/student meet-n-greet, gulping down glasses of wine. (I was poor; the wine was free.) Lo and behold, there was a fine lookin’ fella in the corner, and I figured it was an opportunity to bust out my new behaviour. It began poorly: I initiated conversation. (That’s against the Rules.) I then went with him to a bar that was not in my neighbourhood. (Against the Rules: ladies, let him come to you.) I allowed him to buy me a couple more drinks. (While the Rules do insist he pays, I suspect they look down on excessive alcohol consumption.) There was some smooching. (What?) There was some more smooching. (NO.) I don’t believe I was the one to end the date.
I knew I had veered way off course, so I attempted to right the ship. He told me he would call the next afternoon. “That’s fine!” I responded airily. “I’ll call you back in three days!”
It probably does not have to be said, but much like Fight Club, the first rule of the Rules is you don’t talk about the Rules.
I did call him three days later, but we talked for an hour and he ended the call and — OMG! — we’ve been together ever since. And you know what else? Chatelaine’s girl crush Kate Harding has written a great essay for Salon about how she broke all the rules and her husband married her anyway. And you know what else? My friend threw out the Rules handbook and pursued a guy and they’ve been together ever since, too. So haven’t we, as a society, arrived at a place where we can agree that all women are NOT obsessed with marriage, and that all men are NOT obsessed with the hunt, and that in this bright, beautiful 21st century, we can behave whatever way we damn well please?
Evidently not. Because this week, in the Huffington Post, along comes a woman named Jag (that’s right: Jag) telling us that if we hew very closely to her principles, we too can have an engagement ring by Christmas!
I give up. Will we never be rid of the Rules? And do you think they’re necessary? Have they ever worked for you? Tell us below!
— Danielle Groen
