Since my divorce two years ago, I’ve been playing the dating game. For the most part it’s been pretty fun and I’m really enjoying this time in my life—maybe a little too much, my mother is suggesting to me. Hey, after twelve years with someone, let me enjoy this period of complete freedom. I’m not accountable to anyone and can do whatever the sam-hill pleases me, anytime I want. Repeat. What. Ever. I. Want. At. Anytime. This blessed period isn’t going to last forever, so I’m relishing every minute of it.
Also, at the age of 36 I’m more me, if that makes any sense. I get it now when women say that they’re happier as they get older. With age comes perspective and a certain “I just don’t give a crap what you think about me” joie de vivre. It’s liberating! And it makes me a heck of a lot happier to just accept who and what I am.
And apparently what I am is a food snob.
I had no idea. I feel so ashamed, but I can’t help it. So, I’ve decided to embrace this hypocritical side of me.
Here’s how this revelation came about: During the dating process I started to notice that my normally non-judgmental personality was leaping to some pretty strong judgments when certain paradigms about food would be revealed. I’d have to mentally back down and remind myself that not everyone is the same … it’s okay to have differences, it’s those differences that attract us to one another.
Or maybe not.
For instance, there was one fellow that I dated (for eight months, actually) who’d never eaten an olive before he met me. Hmm. Okay. He’d also never eaten avocado before. Because it was green. But you’re from Texas where guacamole is like a state food, I would stammer. “Yeah,” he’d say, “but it’s green. I don’t eat green.” Uhm. Okay.
It quickly became apparent that he didn’t eat veggies. But my brother doesn’t eat veggies, so I felt like that was something I could work with. Until I realized how much I cook vegetables. And how much I loved them. And how very difficult it became to cook meals that we would both enjoy. I actually started to feel sorry for my sister-in-law Marlene who has to cook around my brother’s no-veggie preferences. (Although, I will admit that he’s gotten much better as he’s gotten older. He has kids and he tries to be a good example.)
There was another guy who wouldn’t eat anything but “American” food. My international family background with its love of world cuisine would have to take a back seat for that relationship to work. It didn’t.
If the man is unadventurous or unappreciative when it comes to food, I’m immediately let down, like he’s got horrible halitosis or the perpetual farts.
The minute he says, “Oh, I don’t eat that … won’t even try it,” I see the relationship going up in smoke. There’s something so closed-minded about his statement that I can’t help but rethink our compatibility. And that in turn makes me pretty closed-minded too, doesn’t it? It does! And yet I’m having a hard time overcoming it. There’s just something about the way a man looks at food that is akin to the way he treats his mother in my dating criteria.
A man who enjoys good food and drink is incredibly sexy to me—more sensual and perceptive.
Hey, great food isn’t about five-star restaurants. It’s as much about taco carts on the corner and growing it in our own backyard. It’s about flavor and opening your senses of smell, touch and taste. It’s about the adventurous spirit.
We don’t have to match on everything. There’s plenty I can put up with. Seat up in the bathroom? Fine. Burp and scratch your a$$ in public? Fine. Love making a Dutch oven? Ugh, but fine.
Don’t like good food? Yeah, not sure I can get over that one; just might be a deal breaker.
So, I’m shallow. I’m a food snob. In my present state of age, I’m good with that. Cause life’s kinda short and great food is just something that I’m not prepared to give up.
Now, having said all that, I’ll probably fall head over heels for someone who is a food-plebe.