By Catherine Portland
This week I had an unfortunate date with possibly the least masculine man in the world. His name was Stu and I had met him through a friend of mine. I had seen him on nights out quite a bit and thought he looked alright, if not a bit serious.
So when he asked me out for a meal, I thought ‘why not’.
We decided to meet at a stupidly trendy restaurant in Camden, where everything is stupidly trendy and I feel generally rather out of place.
I hadn’t had my usual selection of snacks at my desk that afternoon so I could save myself for the evening meal.
When we got the restaurant, like a gentleman, he let me order first.
I opted for soup and crusty bread for a starter and for main a three levelled burger with an extra layer of bread in it like those ones you get in MacDonalds.
Maximum grease, maximum carbs. Because this is what I eat. And it’s fun.
Stu, meanwhile, ordered a warm chicken salad which was a starter, but he did that thing where he asked them to make it into a main, but it ends up being tiny anyway. Pathetic.
We went a bit quiet after the waiter left, both appalled at the other for breaking the gender stereotype appetite rules.
But conversation got going before long and I thought he seemed alright, although I was right that he was a bit too serious, as he animatedly talked in great detail about a band he had recently seen – it does make me cringe when people get het up about music. Just sit back and enjoy it, I say.
When the food arrived, his animatedness turned to culinary delights and it transpired that Stu had a bit of a fetish for depriving himself of all that is delicious.
Low fat this and 200 calories that and ‘I don’t really snack between meals’ and so on.
I happily continued stuffing my face, as a modern woman who is not concerned by trifling (get it, trifling) topics such as weight.
But when I popped to the toilet half way through, I realised I had a big splodge of mayonnaise on my cheek. Hmm, slightly embarrassing, but I was not perturbed.
The worst, however, was yet to come – when he started to tell me how many calories my own meal contained, as if his disgusted looks didn’t make it obvious enough that he was appalled by my ever-so ‘unfeminine’ eating habits.
The evening wore on with Stu exhibiting all the self-absorbed signs of someone obsessed with their size and weight and my mind began to wander.
What an ironic name for a man that refuses to eat, I thought. By the look of him, it occurred to me that Stu could really use a good homecooked stew.
When we left the restaurant we had the inevitable awkward moment, both of us aware that there was to be no good night kiss, both of us so clearly repelled by such a notion.
I had never before thought that I went for especially manly men, but I do think a healthy appetite is a turn-on. I hate it when girls don’t eat and it’s even worse to feel like your date is analysing you.
No, what I really want is a man who can finish my leftovers, a man who is insatiable and full of energy. Not one who picks at his food all evening and scowls at me when I choose push the calorie limits.
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