Why the 90-day rule is utter rubbish

Forget what Steve Harvey told you; three months is only enough time for a man to fool you into thinking he is a gentleman.

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What you need to know:

  • You can write a very bad novella in 90 days.
  • You can go to rehab and get clean in 90 days. (Sobering, ey?) You can jump into a space ship and go to the moon and back 15 times in 90 days.
  • If I may also remind you dear fellow Christians, God made the universe in seven days.

You must have heard of the 90-day rule. It’s this completely outrageous ‘rule’ where some women will make their new man wait 90 bloody days before they can have sex with him. That’s three months. You can potty train a toddler in 90 days. You can write a Master’s thesis in 30 days. You can write a very bad novella in 90 days. You can go to rehab and get clean in 90 days. (Sobering, ey?) You can jump into a space ship and go to the moon and back 15 times in 90 days. If I may also remind you dear fellow Christians, God made the universe in seven days. He could have made a dozen universes in this time while you were waiting for the green light.

AVOIDING TEMPTATION

Steve Harvey wrote the book that single women regard as holy scripture, Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man. In it, Steve with his egg-shaped head planted this bogus 90-day rule into women’s head, making it sound like it is the most sensible thing to do when you meet a guy. He wrote: “...if Ford and the government won’t give a man benefits until he’s been on the job and proven himself, why, ladies are you passing out benefits to men before they’ve proven themselves worthy?”

I rolled my eyes.

Brothers, do you know how women stay 90 days before sleeping with you? Do you know how they avoid ‘falling into temptation’ (because temptation is a big, gaping hole waiting for women to trap, obviously)? Well, first, they always meet you in public places because there is no chance of them grabbing you by the collar and telling you, “Take me now, you strong armed, bushy chinned ruffian!” I hear that they also do not shave or wax. That’s a 90-day hairy situation right there. Imagine that the lovely lady sitting before you over dinner, seductively caressing a sangria or a Cosmopolitan, is all native and bushy down there. It’s enough to make you push your plate of steak away.

DATE NIGHT PANTIES

Lastly, I hear they wear some really bad panties when they are meeting you. I don’t understand this – do they just have a stock of bad panties lying around for date nights or do they have this one that they wash and dry overnight before bringing it out for use the next day? I don’t even want to think about these things.

The whole idea behind the 90-day rule is so that the woman can get to know what kind of a man she is dealing with. In those 90 days, she will know if you are romantic, thoughtful, caring and honestly in love with her, and not just trying to get into her (ugly date-night) panties. I call this poppycock. I mean, come on, ladies. A man will put his best foot forward for a year, even, if that’s what it takes for him to fool you into getting out of those (ugly date-night) panties.

I can understand making a man wait for a maximum of one month. Actually, that’s what the Universe recommends. That’s about eight dates if you are meeting him twice a week, as you well should because you are a busy woman. I submit that by the end of the month, if you don’t know what kind of a man he is then the problem is not the man, it’s you and your sense of perception.

I also think that if women spoke less during dates and actually let the man get a word in edgewise, then perhaps they would get to know him better in a shorter time and save everybody the torture and sexual indignity of waiting 90 days.

MUST LEARN TO LISTEN

Plus, that 90 day rule is a sham because he will show up and pull chairs and open doors and listen attentively and offer you his jacket when your bare shoulders are getting goosebumps from the cold (or his lingering stare) and ask thoughtful questions like, “I find it very interesting how you manage to buoy your emotions when it comes to work. I think it’s masterful. Have you always been like that?” Then off she will set off talking your ears off and before you know it, it’s 90 days and he knows more about you and your pets, pesky relatives and your power battles with your girlfriends than you know how many siblings he has. Also, I’m certain after the 70th day she will start retelling you the stories she told you at the beginning and there is nothing as excruciating as listening to a woman retell you a story in great tiresome detail because you can’t tell her you already heard it before because she will be embarrassed and such emotions like embarrassment are, apparently, not considered foreplay.

Once upon a time a woman I liked made me wait four months. Four long months! It was like walking in this dark tunnel with no light at the end of it, and no sound save that of my thinning patience. She’d occasionally say, “You are so sweet for waiting.” I wanted to cry because I’m anything but sweet. I’m allergic to sweet.

Waiting all those months is easily the most difficult thing I have done in my life, 20 times worse than jumping off a plane at 12,000 feet, straddled between another man’s legs. Did she know me any better after the fourth month? No. You know what I wish I had done, though? I wish I had grown a tree in those four months like Baba Moi used to do when he visited a place. That tree would now be a home to birds. Now, that is sweet, isn’t it?