Yesterday, I replied to a blog I read regularly, and this led to a question for me. So, Narcissist, here is the answer.
I love to eat. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I’m constantly stuffing some form of food down my gullet. I’m not exercising as much as I used to either but still remotely resemble a pale, slightly short, Ethiopian marathon runner. It’s a curse, I suppose. One of the many curses I am saddled with. I also appreciate a healthy appetite in others as well. There is nothing wrong with wanting to eat. Cleaning your plate after a meal is a compliment; what chef wants to see the plates returning to the kitchen with half of the contents still on it? Failure to eat, especially if I’m paying for it, doesn’t just baffle me, it kind of, well…
…The oddest things seem to get under my skin. I don’t get too mad, don’t blow my top or anything like that, but I do get a little irritable. I’m probably not as obscure as I believe I am in this regard either. But, since this is my blog, I will tell you what gets under my skin like it only gets under my skin. It doesn’t happen a lot mind you, but when it does…
When I used to date (don’t ask) I had no objections to picking up the cheque. (Notice the British spelling!) And, just so you ladies don’t get worried – picking up the cheque does not mean I think the girl owes me anything. Seriously, how can people think that? If you co-sign a bank loan for her and she defaults on it – she owes you something. You buy her dinner – the only thing she owes you is her company until you’ve picked up the cheque. It’s not that difficult to understand is it? Besides, my grandmother would kill me if I thought any other way. And this is a lady with 12 children so you know what she liked to do!
So, back to dating. I take this girl for dinner, order some drinks, peruse the menu, find out what she wants and I order for her. I was told that ordering for her is a good thing. Some women see it as a turn-on. The ones who call you sexist for holding a door for them probably won’t like it though. And I give her free range on the menu as well. She can order anything she wants; even if it is overpriced. I have no objections to paying more than $15 for a house salad if that is what she wants.
What I do have an objection to is the girl taking two, yes I said two, forkfuls of salad, pushing the plate away and proclaiming herself to be full. Seriously, this happened. All subtle innuendo and casual flirting before the meal arrived had been smacked away like a red-headed stepchild. The look on her face, one that said “if I take another bite I might have to die of obesity or guilt because kids are starving in some foreign country” (a country she probably couldn’t name either) did little to stem the build-up inside me. And it wasn’t acid reflux either. And don’t bother getting it boxed up to eat the rest of the week! Grrrr. Are you shitting me? Two bites of salad and you’re full. My old rabbit ate more roughage than that at a sitting. The tiny microorganisms crawling all over the produce at your local supermarket are eating more than two bites of salad at a time. And here she is, big smile and fake tan, pushing away her plate, sighing like she’s just gorged on two pig carcasses, half a cow, and a side order of ribs that would topple Fred Flintstone’s car. I’m waiting for her to unbutton her jeans, loosen her belt, and let out a caveman type belch to signal her pride in the feast.
Okay, I hear the defenders of this young lady say she wanted to give a great impression – apparently the impression of a girl who eats is a bad one. I’m all for not ordering pasta on the first date because it’s messy or has too much garlic, but seriously, eat a little more than the average house pet. Order something you have to eat with your fingers. I, and perhaps most men with a little bit of intelligence, will see it as a sign. If I see you licking your fingers before the end of dinner, and you know I’m going to watch, I’ll know that you’re comfortable and don’t find me utterly repulsive.
Maybe I’m in the minority. Maybe men like girls who don’t eat and stay bony, errr, thin. Maybe the man who likes a woman with curves, or at least capable of eating a two-piece meal from Kentucky Fried Chicken (not that I’m saying I’d eat that – way too much grease – but you get my point), is a rarity. Maybe having an appetite when you’re taken out for dinner isn’t such a bad thing. And don’t tell me you don’t think like that either. You’ll put on your sexiest pair of panties when you know you’re taking off your clothes with your new man later. Don’t pretend that you’ll stuff yourself all day because “you forgot” you’re going out for dinner later. Maybe I’m off my rocker. Would somebody let me know?
Surely we have moved on from the waifish look? Surely girls, or at least the smart ones, know that they don’t have to look like they are in Hollywood to be considered sexy? If they don’t; Hollywood sucks for denying me the right to look at curves on a woman. Curves are sexy.
That’s it really. That, above all else, really really really irks me. And it’s not about the money. I’ve spent $15 on far more foolish things than two bites of lettuce with a little balsamic vinegar thrown in for flavour. It’s about… I don’t know what it’s about. It just irks me. But then again, I’m not quite normal.