A satirical column about very personal dating dealbreakers.
A man once refused to kiss me goodnight because I was holding a croissant. “I don’t believe in breakfast,” he said, with the confidence of somebody announcing an important philosophical position. I reconsidered the date. I kept the pastry.
Some incompatibilities are serious. Others are so particular that explaining them aloud makes the speaker sound like a difficult restaurant customer. This column is about the second kind.
There is the date who calls museums “standing and reading.” The one who describes himself as “random” immediately before telling a story he has clearly rehearsed. The cat owner whose pet has a birthday guest list on which you are conspicuously absent.
There is also the person who says “I don’t mind where we eat” and then rejects eleven restaurants. By the twelfth, the relationship has become a planning committee with no chair.
Crocs, astrology, horses, and an unfortunate rhyme between first and last names have all appeared in imaginary prosecutions conducted by my overactive dating brain. None is evidence of a bad person. Sometimes a preference is just a preference wearing a detective’s hat.
It is worth distinguishing an irritating habit from dishonesty, cruelty, or pressure. Otherwise, you may spend so long investigating the footwear that you miss the way somebody treats the waiter.
As for the breakfast skeptic, I hope he found someone whose mornings aligned with his. I found a second croissant.
The match was immediate, although I appreciate that pastries have an unfair advantage: they rarely explain why your interests are wrong.
