Are You There God? It's Me, Molly. Where's Chivalry?

This week, I'm thanking you for helping me survive the weekend of being surrounded by creepy, middle-aged, wannabe swashbucklers at the event we crazy Floridians trick ourselves into thinking is a lovely celebration of pirate culture: Gasparilla. Shiver me timbers, that was weird.

More importantly, I've got another question for ya.

Jesus rose from the dead. Where the heck is the resurrection of chivalry?

For years I have single-handedly led a crusade against ye negative Nance-a-lots who continually whine of dear chivalry's untimely death. I've been optimistically holding onto the last strand of this grand ideology and all its splendor, getting my chivalrous fix from one angelic guy taking three extra seconds to hold the door open for me, or from a precious boy blessing me after *sneezing in class.

(*also, God, I didn't get a flu shot so I'm trusting you on this one that I don't get sick. Please and thank you.)

Anyways, I know we both saw that really low point in my life last Friday night. You know what I'm talking about. When I sobbed 15 times while watching “Gangster Squad." Whatever, I know you made me the kind of girl who could have my heart broken and thrown in a blender, watch it spin around into a beautiful oblivion…yet not feel a thing so that I could be in control of these little things called feelings. That's cool and all. I respect that.

However, you also adorned me with me with a very special relationship with cinema that makes me more emotional during any (and every) movie than I am at a funeral on a rainy day after listening to a year's worth of Adele. I see gangster Ryan Gosling light hussy Emma Stone's cigarette at a speakeasy in a dang sensationalized movie and my sleeve is wet from wiping my tears. I promise you, I've never smoked a cigarette (brownie points, right?) but seeing that gentlemanly act of a handsome man such as The Gos just walking up to a ginger lady and lighting her cigarette without even saying a word…Swoonfest2013. It made me almost wish I lived in that glorious era and smoked like a chimney solely so I could have a debonaire gangster kindly give me a light all day. My lungs would deteriorate but my heart would throb.

The other day when I was waiting at the printing lab for a solid 30 minutes, I dabbled in a little statistics (shout out to my hot stats TA). There were seven girls standing. Guys were taking up 78 percent of the chairs. Zero percent of me was happy about this. Not a single one asked if I wanted his seat OR hand in marriage! What's up with dudes these days?! SICKENING!

I understand. It's time that I let go and accept that chivalry is, in fact, 6 feet under and probably wearing snapbacks and tattoos because apparently that's what's important to guys nowadays. Chivalry is survived by it's spouse, charm. The funeral was a beautiful celebration of a happier time, when Jay-Z had zero problems and Justin Bieber knew that “swaggy” actually wasn't the next number after “one, two.” Everyone looked back on chivalry's life in delighted remembrance. Heck, if inanimate objects have a judgment day I'm sure chivalry's up livin' the life in heaven, because it was a true blessing to all lives it touched. You should probably even get a head start on the paperwork to making it a saint.

Don't get me wrong- I'm a firm believer in equal rights and all that wonderful jazz, but I highly doubt that even the most intense feminist would punch a guy in the throat just for kindly being offered a seat on a crowded bus. Even if a guy asks me if I want to borrow his jacket, I'll probably politely decline, but only after I let out a victorious warcry and kiss the dude's face. Like, I don't want frozen Jack Dawson to sink to Davy Jones' Locker for offering up his spot on the door fit for two floating in the frosty ocean. But I wouldn't mind George Bailey asking “What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down...I'll give you the moon.” Thanks for asking George Bailey; sure, you can give me the moon!

Look. I'm no princess. Nothing crazy. I'm just looking for a little leeway here! So if you could do me a big favor and just plant a little seed in guys' minds that politeness is the new "swag," that would be truly outstanding. I know you're in the business of miracles. Let's make it happen.


Molly Slicker is a Human Communication major with a minor in Film. She is an entertainment junkie who appreciates good humor, good vocabulary and good friends. She gets way too attached to fictional characters and her favorite sports teams. She is inspired by her family, faith and the 2001-2002 cast of Saturday Night Live. Follow Molly on Twitter for mostly sarcastic updates about celebrities and her life's awkward situations or on Instagram for pictures of her feeble attempts at craftiness

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