On April 1, 2014, I met my girlfriend Jennifer for the first time. We sipped on our coffee and tea late into the night at a local coffee joint while sharing stories and generally just trying to figure each other out. But, after a while, my legs grew restless, my rear had gone numb on the provided polypropylene seat, and I was long done with my coffee.
"Want to go for a drive?" I asked.
"Sure," she replied.
I have no problem telling people that Jennifer and I met on Jack's pick-up app of choice, Tinder. Jenn and I chatted back and forth for a couple of days before finally meeting. Thankfully, being an automotive journalist, I was prepared. On this particular week in April, I was driving a near-as-makes-no-difference $100,000 Audi A7 with as many options as the public relations budget could bear.
As we walked out of the coffee shop — let's call it Jim Dortons — I reached into my pocket, pulled out the keys and unlocked the Audi's doors.
I went to the driver's side, she to the passenger's side, and we both slipped into the German executive liftback.
"Wow, this is nice," she exclaimed with the mild surprise I've come to love.
We explored the snow-covered streets of the city I now call home. Now and then, I let the rear of the A7 slide ever so slightly so I could prove my driving chops to my future Miss.
Earlier this year, and more than a year after Jennifer and I met each other on that dark wintery night in a coffee shop, Nissan loaned me a Micra S — base model spec with nary an option. It is, by far, one of the most basic examples of personal transportation money can buy in a First World country.
The Miss and I tend to both enjoy a burger here and there, so we headed to a local fast food joint after both putting in 10+ hours of work for the day.
We sat, traded the day's stories (Warning to TTAC writers: She knows everything about you), and enjoyed our grill-fired deliciousness on a balmy summer evening. Nothing could be better in this moment.
When it was time to go, we walked out of the fast food joint — let's call it Gag & Spew — I reached into my pocket, and …
… I walked to the passenger side of the car to unlock the door.
This is the first time you've ever physically unlocked a door for Jenn, I said to myself as the epiphany hit me like a fully loaded Amtrak train.
Not only that, I followed the unlocking action by opening the door for her.
She stood there, looked at me for mere seconds — but those seconds felt like an eternity — with a face usually reserved for times when she sees a fluffy, fresh out of the wrapper puppy (eyes that say "Awwweeee!" without the mouth needing to do so), gave me a kiss and jumped in the car. I closed the door for her.
While we can have a massive conversation about gender equality or traditional gender roles, the fact remains: until this moment, I had never unlocked nor held a car door open for Jenn. Not once. Not ever. And it all comes down to power door locks and, well, me never thinking to do it.
The same logic can probably be applied to climate control systems. Not so long ago, if your significant other was getting a little warm over on the passenger side, she might have said, "I am getting a little warm."
"No problem, I can take care of that, dear," you'd reply, adjust the single-zone temperature control so both of you would be comfortable — or you might even take one for the team and bear being uncomfortable yourself so she'd be content — and she would likely be appreciative of your efforts, however small it may be.
Nowadays, your reply might be, "You have your own temperature control knob, dear. You can set it to whatever you want!" Feminists might call that empowerment. I call it a missed opportunity.
All these modern features — remote power locks, dual-zone automatic climate control, remote automatic starters (the end of "Don't worry dear. I can go out and start the car for you."), roadside assistance (the end of "Yes, dear, I can drive out and help you change that tire."), and numerous others — are all aimed at making the car more convenient, but also fly in the face of car guys being a chivalrous sort. Even bench seats are limited to pickups these days, unless you want to pick up an Impala Classic through a friendly fleet manager.
While Jenn and I did end our coffee date all those months ago with a kiss, I wonder: If I had held the door open for her, would I have received that kiss before our drive? And would our drive have turned out to be a much different experience?
Maybe, maybe.
The post The Modern Automobile Is Killing Chivalry appeared first on The Truth About Cars.
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