The world’s worst eating disorder occurs between two people of the opposite sex.
“Where do you want to eat?”
“Doesn’t matter to me.”
Silence.
A tinge of friction, undefinable at the time. But something besides hunger is there that wasn’t there before.
You speak again. The car is almost out of the driveway.
“You in the mood for anything in particular?
“Well, not really. I just want to spend time with you. I could eat just about anything.”
“Well, Mexican, Italian … Want a burger or something?”
“Anything’s fine. You decide.”
You are driving now or being driven in a direction. Just a direction. Not to anything, not away from anything. Just driving, hungry and decisionless. Sans decision. No Man’s Land.
“Seafood?”
“Well, not seafood. But anything else.”
Discreetly, eyes roll.
“Enchiladas?”
“If you want. Really, it doesn’t matter to me.”
The car is going slower because you don’t want to drive too far in case you’re heading away from whatever restaurant you decide — sometime before the turn of the century — to eat at.
“You don’t care?”
“Not really.”
That’s it.
“Fine. Let’s go to the 7-Eleven and get a Big Gulp and a hotdog and eat it on the curb by the dumpster and the old pay phone.”
“Well, not that.”
“OK then. It does matter. You do care. Now, where do you want to eat?”
“Where do you want to eat?”
At this point, ugly names like “Mister Smarty Pants Question-Asking Hangry Person!” are not spoken at the ends of the sentences. They are, however, understood.
“Well, where do you want to eat, (insert ugly name here)?”
“That’s what I’m asking you, (worse ugly name goes here)!”
And you continue trying to make the other person decide, secretly hoping they will save you from culinary hell.
We all eat several times a day. Every day. You’d think that after all the practice, we’d get it right. But time and time again, men and women have food fights.
Why is this?
It doesn’t work this way when it’s just guys or just girls. The decision is made quickly, the compromise comes easier, or something. I do not know why. All I know is that if Chef Boy-ar-dee and the Jolly Green Giant decide to go eat together, they’re ordering in 10 minutes. But if Chef Boy-ar-dee and Betty Crocker decide to dine together, they’re still hungry and hour later. Hungry, and on a low boil.
Sadly, we seldom make the perfect call. We second guess. We try to read minds, or stomachs. We don’t trust. (“Does she really want pizza for the third straight night, or is she just being nice …?”)
Sometimes, though, you actually make it to the restaurant without having to stop for either gas or stitches. And you look at each other, and apologize, and there is only one thing left to say.
“Here, or to go?”
Contact Teddy at teddy@latech.edu