I once dumped a guy because he bought me dessert on our first date.
At least that’s the story my friends will cite for you as proof positive that I am hopelessly destined for a sad, miserable life in the unforgiving company of online crossword puzzles, Soup For One, and an endless stream of Lifetime Television Movies. All because I am just “too damn picky.”
As you might expect, I have a slightly different take.
To begin with, I only agreed to the date in a moment of weakness, egged on by my well meaning (read:married) friends who had convinced me that I was, once again, being intransigent and unreasonable. So, it was with my friend Cheryl’s not-so-gentle admonition “Beggars can’t be choosers” ringing in my ears that I grudgingly accepted an invitation for an evening out with this guy I had met at a party the week before.
I knew the date was going to suck the instant he put me in charge of picking the restaurant. I SO hate it when they do that! It’s a trap. If you pick a place that’s too fancy, you’re immediately labeled “high maintenance,” and he’ll spend the rest of the night devising clever little tests to see if you’re going to end up being too expensive to take out again. But if you settle on a place that’s too low-end, you have just telegraphed a visible lack of self-esteem that will give him license, if he is so inclined, to dump all over you for the remainder of the date or the entire length of the relationship, whichever lasts longer.
Memo to Clueless First Date Guys: Make like a Boy Scout and Be Prepared. You are not doing us a favor or being considerate by asking us to pick the restaurant. Rather, you are signaling in blazing pink neon that you either haven’t put any time or thought into the date - ergo, why should we - or that you are a total rube who probably never leaves his apartment except to go to the neighborhood video store to rent porn. In either case, you are kicking off the date on a gimpy foot of resentment from which it will likely never recover.
As luck would have it, I happen to have passed Dating Faux Pas 101 several years ago. I always make it a point to have three “first date” restaurants, cunningly located at strategic points across the city, tucked up my sleeve for just such unfortunate occasions. Restaurant Number One, in the Financial District, is my restaurant of choice for the “let’s meet after work for drinks that may or may not turn into dinner” First Date. Restaurant Number Two, around the corner from my apartment, is my favored spot for the “we don’t really have anything in common and we both know it, so let’s just rush through the meal so we can run back to my place and have sex” First Date (oh, stop it, you! I’m just saying it could happen, okay?). And Restaurant Number Three, in the South End, is a little more upscale that the first two, eminently suitable for the “yes, I am a grownup and I’m actually admitting this is a date” Big Time Saturday Night first Date. All three places are studies in neutrality: reasonably priced but by no means cheap; nicely decorated but not too over the top; and well-regarded locally for serving interesting food that’s not too exotic - in case he has some freaky allergy or something. Oh, and they all have full bars - a hard and fast requirement for either a) livening up those less-than-sparkling Awkward First Date conversations; or b) (see Restaurant Number Two, above).
Since this was an “after work for drinks that may or may not turn into dinner” First Date, we found ourselves in Restaurant Number One, which is a cute little French bistro with an attentive wait staff and a nice wine list. And, as it happened, drinks did indeed turn into dinner, even though I had suspected pretty much immediately that my first instinct had been correct and he wasn’t really The One for me. But he insisted on buying me dinner, and I was still smarting under the “arbitrarily picky” label that everyone from my best friend to my otherwise-cool boss had slapped on me, so I was determined to prove myself wrong. Plus I was hungry. And it was by no means an awful time (yet). In fact, I hadn’t even gotten around to uttering the “big day tomorrow, gotta run” Bad Date Escape Excuse when the dessert menu arrived.
I declined the proffered menu and ordered an espresso instead.
“Don’t you want dessert?” he asked, nudging his own menu toward me.
“No, thanks,” I replied, taking a dainty sip of what was left of my wine.
“How come?”
“I’m not just a big dessert person.” That’s only partially true. I love dessert and would gobble it down for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if I could. But I’ve gotten into the healthy habit of not ordering it, because it’s a big waste of calories that could be more usefully expended on beer, margaritas, and sour apple martinis.
He sat back and gave me what he probably intended to be an admiring once-over (if there is such a thing), but ended up making me so uncomfortable I found myself slowly slumping down so far in my seat that I could practically see the wads of gum stuck to the underside of the table. “But you look great!” he said. “You can afford a nice dessert once in a while!”
That was about the time that my brain began that slow burn that marks my personal transition from bemused annoyance to outright loathing (and for me, that’s a pretty short jaunt). First, because he immediately leapt to the assumption that it was a weight-control driven decision (yeah, so what if it was - it was none of his business). For all he knew, I might have been diabetic. Oh, except for all of the alcohol I had consumed that evening. But still! And, second of all, who the hell was he to decide whether or not I was physically worthy of dessert? It was our first date! You’re not allowed to pull that until you’re cohabitating with someone! Third of all, I had already said no. And No Means No. At least that’s what they always taught us in those college date rape seminars.
In a monumental effort to remain calm and polite, I drained my wineglass, set it down carefully, and replied, “Well, thanks, but I’m fine for now. Really.”
He picked up the menu and waved it at me. “How about a piece of cake?” he boomed, attracting the unwelcome attention of every diner at the next three tables. “Look - here’s a ‘flourless chocolate torte!’ That sounds good, doesn’t it?”
Not when it’s pronounced “tor-TAY” in front of the entire restaurant, it doesn’t. But it occurred to me then that maybe he really wanted to get dessert for himself but was holding back because he felt funny ordering it in front of me. So, in my final attempt at poise and graciousness, I said, “I’ll tell you what - if you order that I’ll take a bite, okay?”
He pounced. “See? I knew you wanted something! Come on, get one for yourself! It’s okay!”
I had, thus far, spent ten minutes bickering with someone I barely knew about whether or not it was “okay“ for me to order dessert. “I. Really. Don’t. Want. Anything.”
One would think that my gritted teeth would have clued him in that it was now time to Just Shut Up. But, to paraphrase Forrest Gump - who was beginning to look a hell of a lot more appealing than my date at that point - clueless is as clueless does. He just had to push it over the edge.
“Aww….I’ll feel really bad if you don’t order something.” Oh, God. Was he actually baby-talking me on our first date? Forget cohabitating - you’re not allowed to pull THAT until there’s an actual baby in the equation!
And that was what did it. I leapt to my feat and shrieked, “Shut up! Shut up! Why are you trying so hard to try to force me to do something I clearly don’t want to do?”
Okay. Slight exaggeration. I didn’t really leap to my feet and shriek that. I didn’t shriek. I didn’t leap to my feet. In fact, I didn’t really say anything.
Instead, I remained seated, calmly ordered myself a crème brulee (which was excellent, by the way - just the exact degree of crispiness on top and nicely warm but not too runny on the inside), glared tiny invisible daggers at him for the remainder of the evening, and spent the next three weeks ducking his calls.
And this, my dears, is the incident that my friends have boiled down to, “Leslie wouldn’t go out with him again because he tried to buy her dessert on their first date.”
The worst part was, even though I obviously never wanted to talk to him again, he just didn’t take the hint. Never mind the fact that I had barely spoken to him for the short remainder of our ill-fated date. Or that when we pulled up to my apartment I hurtled out of the car, house keys at the ready, before he even had time to come to a complete stop. Or that I ran into my apartment with neither a “thank you” nor a backward glance. He just kept leaving these long-winded, chatty messages about nothing, which I eventually began to delete without playing back. It was as if he thought that, by sheer force of will, he could wear me down and somehow force me to go out with him again. Much the way he forced me to order the crème brulee that had been the cause of so much grief in the first place.
He eventually did get the hint when we ran into each other at City Sports several weeks after The Night of the Brulee. Well, he ran into me, that is. I just ran away. Yes, that’s right - I looked right into his face and promptly ducked behind a gigantic rack of half-priced running shorts. I just couldn’t bear the idea of standing there and being forced to engage in yet another argument of attrition with someone who couldn’t - or wouldn’t - take “no” for an answer. Instead, I watched silently through a gauzy filter of blue gore-tex as he exited the store, slumped and dejected but, I fervently hoped, a little bit wiser for his heartbreak.
Of course, the Trio of Singing Chipmunks who comprise my circle of immediate acquaintances all had to weigh in with their opinions on the topic:
Cheryl: You’re being ridiculous. You’re way too judgmental. Nobody’s perfect.
Janine: Don’t come crying to me when you’re old and alone. Nobody’s perfect.
My Otherwise Cool Boss (for the Man’s Perspective): Dude, that’s harsh. He was just trying to be nice. Besides, nobody’s perfect.
It seemed futile to try to get them to see it from my point of view. Because it wasn’t about perfection, or the lack thereof. Nor was it about the poor planning, the less-than-sparkling conversation, the mangled pronunciation of flourless French pastries, or even the crème brulee, really.
It was about the sense of desperation you feel when you’re trapped in a room with someone who just won’t listen to you. Someone who is so consumed with fulfilling some preconceived agenda that he is incapable of allowing for another perspective. I simply projected outward by, say, fifty years, and tried to decide whether it would be better to be alone or just feel alone for the rest of my life.
It was a pretty easy decision.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a crossword puzzle to finish.
8:26:07 AM 
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