A few moments ago I made a vow to never again feed a man. No more picking up the restaurant tab or stretching my limited culinary skills in order to prepare him a meal. Because every single time I do, it ends badly. Sometimes I end up crying; always I end up feeling foolish.
There was the guy who, after I offered to buy him lunch, informed me that he was still “emotionally involved” with his ex-girlfriend. Or the time I dropped large coin on seafood only to be notified later in the date that we were dating other people. And who can forget the time I watched the man I loved sit at my dining room table and suggest to me that we go back to “just fucking around” because “that was the fun part, before things got all serious”?
Tonight was pretty standard for my track record: invited my guy over for dinner, fixed something that didn’t come out of a box or a cookbook, had the fireplace and candles lit, and as the night progressed, a chasm opened up between us that I can’t comprehend, let alone explain.
It is peculiar how food and men seem to go hand in hand with disappointment for me. I can’t begin to understand it, and, as far as I know, for all the mountains of books that have been written about dating problems, this one has not been addressed. So, I think it best that I steer clear of the combination.
At least with a Happy Meal I’ll get a toy.