The young Catholic man is taught – perhaps even more than most – to open doors for women. His mother demands this of him, knowing that chivalry is a wonderful virtue to practice. His father demands the same, knowing that his son is going to need all the help he can get to attract women, wondering only vaguely what happened to all his family’s good-looking genes. This all goes to prove the point that virtue is at once desirable and practical. It offers both heavenly and earthly reward. This fact is seen in the practice of Patience; it will obtain for you both that Great Heavenly Peace and a little peace amongst your more obnoxious brethren. Hope gets a man to God and through the day. Likewise, the practice of Chivalry helps a man gain both Heaven and heaven-on-Earth, namely, the warm embrace of an attractive woman. And why not? After all, if virtue was all pain and no gain, we’d be Puritans. And – judging by those liquor cabinets – we’re not.

Thankfully. As Chesterton once said, and I paraphrase here: No one likes Puritans.

So we awkwardly out-walk women to the door. I am of the belief that this action is entirely representative of a higher willingness to sacrifice ourselves for these enormously good-looking things. We grab the handle, wrench the door open triumphantly and assemble our face into features that say, “Today a door, tomorrow my life!” or something equivalent. We are aware – believe it or not – that women are capable of opening doors.  Some of us – writers, poets and other degenerates – have the more unfortunate awareness that these same women could put us on our backs and mace us on the way down. But we pretend and they oblige, because it’s not the thing itself; it’s the symbol, as any good Catholic schoolboy knows. 

Not a common symbol, I know.

But there are dangers associated with chivalry, as St. George will testify to. Let no feminist laugh off our noble door-opening as unable to rectify thousands of years of oppression. It’s a dangerous business, opening that darn door. Especially when you’re on a Catholic campus. I give you then, my list of things that can go terribly wrong:

1. The Accidental Door-stop. This is truly humiliating, especially if the girl in question is one you have the hope of making a breed of legitimate children with. There you are, you and Anne-Marie Elizabeth O’Connor, approaching the door. You remember your parent’s warning; you slip in front of that gorgeous woman and open it. She passes through. Life is good. And then a crowd of waddling rugby players – seeing your noble act – decide to take advantage. They follow tightly behind Anne-Marie Elizabeth, giving you acknowleding grunts, cutting you off from your beloved. This, of course, causes a jam, and another crowd joins behind them – you still holding the door, the delicate Anne-Marie Elizabeth half-way down the hall. You gaze at her, you make eye contact; all is lost. You have been degraded from a man to a door-stop. It is almost worst that she stands to the side and waits for you. You know what she is thinking; here’s a man who the world can pushover, who will run screaming at the first sight of childbirth. You know it. The bright ‘thank you’s’ of the girls who mistakenly think you are holding the door for them do absolutely nothing to comfort the despair in your heart.

2. The Locked Door. You approach, brimming with confidence. You are, after all, a member of the male species. You have rugged good looks, a high sperm count, and a firm belief in the virtue of hard work. The door handle gleams. You place a ruddy hand firmly on the cold metal. You yank, strongly, desiring nothing more than to impress Mary-Clare behind you with the sweeping arch of the door. You dislocate your shoulder. While you bite back pain, you manage to say, “Oh, haha, I didn’t realize…” while Mary-Clare – biting back something else – quietly inserts the key. You resolve to punch yourself in the face later that evening.

I’m telling you, life is hard. It’s situations like this that lead to intense confusion in the adult male.

3. The Non-Compliant Female. There’s always one. You thought you knew her - Catherine-Clare Robinson – you really did. She is Grace Kelly, you Jimmy Stewart. You thought she was one you could share your life with, stay up late discussing the more romantic points of the doctrine of pre-destination, you learning to love Jane Austen, she learning to love Jack Daniels, etc. etc. So you approach the door filled with hope, with anticipation of future joy. You open it wide, her solider and servant. “No, go ahead!” she says happily, gesturing towards the open door. You stop. You are confused. Why is life not progressing onward to the Jane-Jack future of your dreams? Why has she stopped? “Go on!” she says. You are stuck. Is she a radical feminist? Is it a test? If it is, is she looking for a man who will insist open her advancing first, or the man who will oblige her instantly? You don’t know. You try to read her mind. She sighs with impatience. You think: That means I should just go. You step in front of her. Unfortunately, that particular impatient sigh of Catherine-Clare Robinson means, ‘never-mind’. So your step forward cuts her off. She slams into your back. She sighs impatiently. Your life is over.

This doesn't happen.