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One thing I think has come about in "modern" times that is related to the issue of equality for men and women, is that romantic attitudes like courting (yes ok it's also something that was expected before and maybe it didn't actually mean much, it was just the done thing), or doing special little things for your "date", or even liking romantic things, is now ridiculed and considered corny.
I for one love most things romantic, and am not afraid to say so. I don't like it if it's not heartfelt, or if it's over the top regarding the situation (i.e. you've only been on two dates and he already has pet names for you), but I think there is a place for it.
Most romantic gestures have been erradicated from our normal everyday relationships, and so it can seem forced if you try to do something romantic. Some people are even embarrassed by it, because they may be made fun of by other, modern, people.
I agree that romance is less present in the younger generations, but not only in men. I agree though that a lot of men don't have a clue about romance...it's a shame because I'm pretty sure that, even with people who claim they don't appreciate it much, any romantic gesture that is well meant and sincere is always a source of pleasure to your partner, and could become a cherished memory that will remain in the heart of that person - even if you don't stay together. Giving others good memories is always worth it - that's what we'll have when we're old and grey.
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Whether we write or speak or do but look
We are ever unapparent. What we are
Cannot be transfused into word or book.
Our soul from us is infinitely far.
However much we give our thoughts the will
To be our soul and gesture it abroad,
Our hearts are incommunicable still.
In what we show ourselves we are ignored.
The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridged
By any skill of thought or trick of seeming.
Unto our very selves we are abridged
When we would utter to our thought our being.
We are our dreams of ourselves, souls by gleams,
And each to each other dreams of others' dreams.
Fernando Pessoa, 1918
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