Dear Person Who May Date Me Next,
I have this thing. No, it’s not my fear of wet paper (I’ll tell you about that on our third date). It’s not about how I hate vegetables (don’t @ me, Mom). And it’s most definitely not about how I still think about the Spice Girls doll I gave away prematurely (gone, but never forgotten). No, I have this thing called food anxiety. I also have the regular brand of anxiety, but when food is present, it skyrockets. It’s its own beast. Fanxiety (different than hanxiety, when you are just a hungry, hungry hippo) isn’t fun. It’s like every time food is set down in front of me, I actually think something bad will happen if I don’t fill up my bowl ASAP. I have an irrational fear of feeling hungry.
Back to my thing. If we sit down for a nice meal and you even dare suggest that we SHARE a plate, it’s going to be a problem with me. And before you start talking smack, allow me to discuss apps for a second. You wanna go halfsies on a lil’ tuna tartar?? Sign me the heck up. Wanna split a shrimp tempura? Count me in. But when it comes to my entree, I’m gonna need you to back the eff up. I’m evicting you from my side of the table, effective immediately. Ya want a little taste? Be my guest, I’ll even create the perfect forkful for you, containing just a teeny bit of all of the contents on the plate. I know, I’m an angel. But after your one bite, you’re banned. In the words of my fourth grade teacher, “you get what you get and you don’t get upset.” AKA, you made your bed, and now you have to eat your beef Wellington in it.
Be my guest, I’ll even create the perfect forkful for you, containing just a teeny bit of all of the contents on the plate. I know, I’m an angel. But after your one bite, you’re banned.
I mean, think about it. Say we share the dinner special. While I’m talking and telling you about myself, I’m going to be worried the whole time that you are getting all the good bites and eating more than your half. I’ll be sitting there pretending to tell you about my uncle with a parrot named Lloyd, while secretly resenting the fact that you took one third more mashed potatoes than is fair. Honestly, I don’t know if this is gonna work out. Oh, and while you’re talking? Ha. I’ll be shoveling my equal half into my mouth so fast that I probably won’t even hear you over my hurried mastication. And side note: not that I really care what you think about how much I’m eating or the way I eat — I mean, you’ll find out soon enough — but I like to at least look like, ya know, a civilized human on the first date. Besides, you’d already make me look like a monster if the waiter were to bring our meal over with an extra plate to share. You’d cut the garlic roasted chicken in half and then ask me what piece I want. OBVIOUSLY I want the bigger piece, but I won’t say it because I want you to think I am a kind and caring and giving person!! You’re backing me into a corner here!
Listen, I’m not as bad as I sound. I’d just prefer if my hangxiety didn’t spike. That’s a side I don’t want you to see ’til we have, like, seven kids and you’d feel bad leaving me and little Roberta, Gertrude, Nigel, Bernie, Ethel, Doris, and Eugene all by our lonesome! I want to give us a real shot without letting food get in between us. I want to listen to you and laugh with you on our date — not be worried about who’s getting that juicy slice of lamb. So please beware that if we ever go out, I will be getting my own entree and you better get your forkin’ own, too. And if you try to reach over beyond one bite, don’t even think for a second I won’t use my utensils as weapons. I will. Anywho, he he, date me! Bye!