I had invited her. She came. When it was time for her to leave, I stood, hugged her goodbye … then sat back down to finish eating my cake.

Five days later, it finally occurred to me that the polite thing would have been to walk her to her car. And probably hold her door. And tell her how much her presence meant to me.

But it was chocolate cake, and one simply does not trust his tablemates with unguarded chocolate. I chose the cake.

Miss Manners would have been appalled at my behavior. Or lack thereof.

This being a gentleman stuff is hard. Sixty-some years circling the sun and I still don’t know which fork to use when. Uncouth is much easier. And more natural.

I attempted to be a gentleman earlier in my life but it just caused trouble. When I was a teen, women were rebelling against the notion that they were weak and needed a man’s help and consideration. If a guy held the door open for a lady, she might clobber him and call him a chauvinist pig.

At the same time, high school classmate Linda bemoaned the fact that chivalry was dead. Her proof: Men never held doors for women anymore.

Chauvinist or chivalrous. It was very confusing.

Not that women have it any easier.

There was a more refined era when polite society didn’t allow women to be direct. She had to drop hints. And we all know that men are lousy at catching hints.

The great philosopher John Branyan once speculated that when God took a rib from man to create woman, that “clearly that was the rib that we used to use to read minds.”

In the less crude days, if a lady wanted to catch a gentleman’s attention, instead of dropping a hint, she “accidentally” dropped her hankie. The gentleman, being a gentleman, quickly stooped to retrieve the lacey, perfumed cloth. This also provided him permission to speak to the lady, with polite words such as, “Pardon me, ma’am. I believe you dropped this.”

We don’t carry hankies anymore. A woman would need to let one of those pocket packets of tissues thump to the floor, whereupon the “gentleman” would … burst out laughing. “Hey, clumsy, you dropped your snot rags!”

And then they’d get married.

Since guys still don’t get hints, today’s effective way to get a guy’s attention is to drop a sledgehammer on his foot. I mean, text him a kissy-face emoji.

We’ve lost common courtesy. We said please and thank you. We addressed anyone older than us as Mr. or Mrs. Now I have a difficult time finding anyone older than me, and the kids just call me Hey Burt.

In primitive times, we wrote actual thank you notes with ink pen and proper stationery, stamped them and mailed them through the U.S. Postal Service.

We didn’t wear pajamas to go shopping.

I’m not saying that all common courtesies and manners have gone away. Like knights in shining armor, spots of chivalry still shine through.

It warmed my heart when a thoughtful person gave up his seat for me.

But it kept happening. When I entered a crowded room and landed on public transportation, someone always jumped up and insisted that I sit down.

I checked with Miss Manners, who says it’s a common courtesy to offer your seat to women, children and the elderly.

I’ve never been mistaken for a woman, not with my beard and dashing good looks — my looks, anyway. And while I’ve been accused of acting childish, no one confuses me for a little boy. Which means that I am…

Oh, come on, I might be it, but I don’t look THAT old do I?

But hey, I get to sit down. And while there are very few people left whom I have to address as Mr. and Mrs., I’ll still hold the door open for you — unless I need to protect a hunk of chocolate cake. Then we shove Miss Manners out the door.

Send handwritten emails to Cole at burton.w.cole@gmail.com, or hold the door for him on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.