Boys, I’ll make this short: treat her good.
Treat a girl the way you’d treat the most expensive valuable you’ve ever touched. No. Treat her like the most rare thing you’ve NEVER touched.
Try to think of the most valuable object on earth. A Rembrandt painting, an 11th century Bible, the Cup of Christ, the Stetson of Willie Nelson.
Treat your girl like that.
Treat her like she’s been removed from a bullet-proof case and hooked to your arm by Billy Graham himself.
Open every door for her, pull out every chair, hold her pocketbook when need be. Admire her like a painting—not a magazine.
When you spend time together, look straight into her eyes. After all, her eyes lead to her mind, which leads to her heart, which leads to her soul.
Above all—and I am governmentally serious about this—do not look at your damn phone. Not even once. I mean it. Don’t hold it in your lap, don’t set it on the table, don’t keep it in your pocket, don’t make trips to the bathroom to send texts.
When you’re with her, leave your smartphone in your glovebox. Then, place your car in neutral, lock the doors, set the vehicle on fire, and push it into the nearest muddy ditch.
You’re in public with a famous Rembrandt painting—on loan from the Louvre. Don’t waste time.
See how the light hits the angles of her face. Watch the way she wrinkles her forehead when she laughs.
Listen with big ears. Let yourself drift upon the harmonics of her voice like you’re tubing down the Blackwater River with a cooler full of Budweiser and Doritos.
Ask questions. But don’t ask common ones. Be original.
Ask how old she was when she lost her first tooth. Ask about her dog, and where it sleeps.
Would she rather hang-glide or flea-market? Winn-Dixie or The Pig? Kroger or Publix? Barbecue or chicken and dumplings? Cornbread or biscuits? How’s she like her eggs? These are important.
The less you talk about yourself the better.
That’s not because you don’t matter. You do. But because you don’t NEED to say anything to prove what kind of man you are.
Besides, she’s already paying close attention to you. This is because girls, you see, are among the most intelligent creatures on the planet. That’s not opinion, that’s scientific.
Recent medical studies have demonstrated that the most structurally complex brains in the solar system—brace yourself—are female brains.
The second most complex cerebral architectures belong to the North American possum.
So, she’s watching you.
She’s taking notes on how you treat waiters, waitresses, cashiers, and children. How you refer to your mother. How you pet animals. How high-pitched your voice gets when you talk to babies.
That’s why I’m writing you, son. Because I can see you, right now. I’m sitting in a restaurant booth behind you. You’re sixteen, maybe seventeen, dressed nice. You’re on a date at a swanky Italian joint.
A brunette sits across your table, but you don’t even see her. You can’t. You’re too busy looking at a glowing digital screen.
And as your humble brother, I just want to tell you that you’re missing the greatest part of your life.
Which is having the privilege of loving a woman.