Why Pre-Date Contracts Are a Good Idea

Story Sent in by Sam:

Alana and I were out to dinner on our first date. She insisted on paying about 20 times, and although I was ready, willing, and able, I let her foot the bill without much fuss. She said, "You can treat me to something else." Fair enough.

Once dinner was over, I had planned to take her to mini-golf or to a cafe that had live music. Alana, however, had other ideas.

She said, "My car is packed with stuff. Can you help me move it into my new place?"

I hadn't planned on helping someone move as part of a date, but she reminded me, "I paid for dinner, so you can help me out this way."

I liked her well enough, and thought that it might have even been a fun sort of bonding activity. We went to her new apartment, which was in a house, and she pulled her car up to her entrance. She then unlocked the house door and led me inside to an empty room where she wanted her things to be placed.

"Go ahead and get started," she said, "I'll be right out." Guessing that she had to use a bathroom, and a little surprised at the amount of trust she was giving me, I went to work.

When I returned to the car for a second load, I noticed her setting up a lawn chair nearby in the yard. She had an iced drink with her, and she sat down to watch me. I stopped working.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

I replied, "You're just going to watch me work?"

She said, "Uh, I paid for dinner. Is that a problem? I mean, I paid for dinner, after all."

"I wasn't aware that manual labor would be the return favor."

"Let me get this straight: you can enjoy the fruits of my hard-earned money, but you feel to entitled to earn it, yourself?"

I didn't like her tone, but I didn't want to cause a scene. I promised myself that I'd bring in one more armful before asking her to pitch in.

Before I could, though, upon emerging to grab a fourth load, she said, "You can go a bit faster. It's getting late."

I carried in that last bunch, then I looked around for another exit from the house. I found a side exit and wasted no time. I left the house, snuck behind her about a yard's length away, made it to my own car, and drove off.

Less than a minute later, a phone call arrived from her. I ignored it, but I was sure to listen to it later.

"What a shitty human being you are. I slave over a week… a work week for the… for you and so we can have a pleasant dinner and how do you repay me? You're going to pay me back, you son of a bitch. I've got your number and I've got your ass, you slimy sack of sh–"

Deleted.


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A neato statistical analysis about marriage by the Census Bureau. (Thanks for sending it, Nikki!)