After going out with Boba, I had been furious. I hate being made to look stupid, and to be treated like a disposable nonentity before I had an honest chance to make an idiot of myself was a real punch to the gut.
I was commiserating with a single friend about the inept state of mankind (us single girls like to refer you all as "morons" every once in a while, sorry). She said, "Someone has to teach them manners." But I realized it's not about that.
Boba was a highly placed, successful professional. No one can get to such a position without knowledge of manners. He has a boss he has to kiss up to, clients he has to charm, workmates he has to stay on the good side of. He knows his manners.
Yet Boba believes that manners are only when one needs something. The shadchan who set us up believed him to be decorous and chivalrous, because he found it to his benefit to be mannerly to her. But being decent to me, a girl he already decided he had no interest in, is not worthy of any effort on his part. Because if he "tries," and will "get nothing" out of it, then he thinks he looks stupid.
He is one of those sad, sad people who perceive decorum as the equivalent of "sucker" scribbled in marker across a forehead. That the world will laugh if he exerts himself for someone he may never see again. Therefore, he will reject me before I can possibly reject him.
Boba, I just want to say: I pity you. Because I have never regretted being kind, even if it was thrown back in my face. Decency and consideration are more for me than the other person, the same way Moshe Rabbeinu displayed gratitude to inanimate water and sand. It's not about the water and sand. It was Moshe's way of sensitizing himself. I want to be the best I can be, and that means smiling and swallowing deserved retorts when I am on a date with someone who keeps on looking at his phone and complaining how the office cannot function without his presence (which I find highly unlikely, but if so, the obvious solution would be to schedule the date for Sunday).
Here we part ways, Boba. You may not believe it, but I pity you. Yes, you.