Chelsea and Eric
Chelsea is a 28-year-old data analyst who lives in Wychwood. She says she is “outgoing and happy” and adds “I’m not that interested in fashion. I stick to neutrals.” Chelsea says “I’m very adventurous. I travelled around Africa for a few months, I’ve vacationed in Iqaluit, and I’ve hitchhiked around Iceland.”
When she’s home she likes working on photography, hanging out with her 20-lb. cat, and listening to podcasts or mash-ups. She also likes horror movies and documentaries.
I “met” Eric when my friends and I were sharing drinks and playing the “Photo Cliché Game.”
This is basically a drinking game for single girls, where you look through a dating app on someone’s phone, and where the only rule is that you have to take a sip of your drink whenever a guy on the app is doing one of the following things: holding a fish; angling his phone up from the dashboard of his car to take a selfie; driving a truck, or a boat, or leaning on a motorcycle; making a stupid face; skydiving, mountain biking, scuba diving or doing an extreme sport where his face is covered; wearing sunglasses in every photo; hugging a pretty girl; posing for a shirtless bathroom mirror selfie; or flexing in a gym.
Needless to say the majority of us were good and tipsy about 15 minutes in. Soon enough my friends and I found Eric on the app on my phone. Eric didn’t have a cliché photo. He was gorgeous. In our tipsy stupors, we were reduced to giggles and drools and swoons. We could not discern why this man was online. He should be out there in the real world, dating supermodels he met on red carpets.
I “swiped right” and forgot all about him.
The next day was busy for me: deadlines, meetings, reports. I really shouldn’t have had those two — OK, four — glasses of wine the night before. I had such a bad headache.
So it was late afternoon when I finally looked at my phone. Eric had messaged me what looked like an essay, the essence of which was “I like everything you had to say in your profile. And, of course, you’re beautiful. I’d like to know more about you.”
He had also asked for my number. When I sent it, he called right away. We ended up talking for almost an hour that night.
He seemed really kind, emphatic and worldly; he had travelled a lot for work and as a volunteer, so we had that in common. We talked on the phone again a few days later, before I said I was going out for lattes with a girlfriend, and I remember he said he didn’t drink milk.
I didn’t think much of it because so many people now seem to drink soy, coconut, almond or whatever else.
We made plans to meet for dinner at a vegan restaurant the next week. Over the course of the weekend he texted me periodically, just to check in and say hi. It was, of course, adorable. Date night came roaring up like a freight train; my heart was aflutter and my palms were wet. Eric was stunning. He looked like an art piece you just want to admire.
We went into the restaurant and got settled and all was looking promising until we started talking about what to order.
I had been eyeing a dish and wondered aloud if I could get cheese on it, if they had any.
Eric let out a disapproving sigh. “What?” I asked him. He said: “You eat cheese?” I told him I did, and let it hang in the air.
He said, “Well, I am a raw Paleo vegan.” He said it with pride.
I stared at him wide-eyed. I guess in retrospect I shouldn’t have been surprised. I mean, he had been adamant about eating at this restaurant for our date.
“I see,” I said. I told him I like cheese, and meat — not for every meal, but I don’t have any dietary restrictions. I added that I didn’t mind that he did, or if anyone else did. It doesn’t matter to me. I should have kept my mouth shut. He paused, eyed me up and down and then went to town, saying how that “explained” why I look the way I do; he said that if I ate cleaner I would be “perfect” like he was.
He ended his diatribe with “You are what you eat, and I’m real.”
When he finished his rant, I was speechless. How do you respond to someone who goes off like this about cheese?
Thoughts swirled around my head, but the only response that seemed even remotely appropriate was “You’re a dick!”
He seemed to realize, then, how he sounded, and began apologizing, but I was done. I took a deep breath and said “If this diet is so important to you, you might want to mention it on your profile. You know, so you don’t insult your next date.”
I got up to leave — we hadn’t actually ordered anything yet — and wished him good luck in his search.
I was nervous to do it, but it was actually easy to just walk away. I could feel his eyes on me as I left. It crossed my mind that maybe I was the first girl to walk out on him. I hoped so.
I discovered I had more strength than I thought, and realized that looks are not everything.
He sent an apology text the next day, but said we clearly didn’t have the same values. I never responded and deleted his number
Chelsea rates her date (out of 10): 4 Want to be a dating diarist? Email datingdiariescontact@gmail.com.
Date night came roaring up like a freight train; my heart was aflutter and my palms were wet. My date was stunning