There was recently a debate on Twitter among serious media professionals (okay your fearless leader David and a bunch of chicks) regarding whether it was classy or creepy to send an Uber to bring a lady to your apartment. The ladies unanimously chose “classy” because we’ve all been to this rodeo before. But wait, you may ask yourself, gently massaging your beard you specifically grew for your ex’s lumberjack fantasy — isn’t that essentially saying “I’m paying for you to come over so I better get something in return?” Well yeah, there is an unspoken goods for services sort of deal going on, but when the initial text was sent she knew she wasn’t being invited over for tea and scones. In fact, many of the fairer sex would agree that sending a lady an Uber is the millennial equivalent of riding in on your white horse. Except this time she’s holding the auxillary cord and isn’t forced to make awkward small talk while riding bareback (that comes later! **knee slap**).
Bear with me — no one likes to leave their apartment in the winter, venturing out into the cold to foreign hook-up territory. If you’re asking a lady to come over when the temperature dips below freezing, it’s not the destination she’s thinking of, but the bitter and cruel journey ahead. By sending her an Uber you’re putting her comfort first, and eradicated the travel expenses she would have to deal with. Any objections she had about coming over that don’t have to deal with you specifically, poof — gone! She’s already in the car.
One could argue that the cuffing season feeling is mutual, so why go out of your way to pay for someone that can afford their own car? Because it’s the chivalrous thing to do numbnuts, and she’ll appreciate you all the more/probably do more for you in the downstairs department.
To better paint you a picture of this modern day slice of romance, have you ever seen Pretty Woman? If not, spoilers ahead and shame on you. In the final scene of the contemporary fairytale involving a hooker with a heart of gold, Richard Gere is driving down the street, waving a bouquet out of the sun roof of the limousine. While I don’t want to compare your conquests to 80s hookers and any of you to Richard Gere — bless him, — I could argue that not having to get my own damn Uber is the closest I’ll get to that feeling of rescue this winter.
So do yourself and your ladies a favor; the next time you send the late night “Wanna come over?” text, follow it up with “I can call you an Uber.” You’ll both be happy you did.