The other night, a conversation about the finer eating establishments in Bethlehem — and the fact that I’ve never dined at most of them — got me thinking: Is it that no one has ever wanted to take me out for fancy dinner*, or has there been another reason all along?
And I realized there is.
Being taken out for fancy dinner usually falls under a certain — and certainly valid — type of relationship and relationship behavior. As for me, I don’t care about those things.
Sure, I like a nice dinner**. But dressing up, sitting properly, ordering mixed greens and fancy proteins? That’s nice sometimes, I guess. It’s definitely more someone else’s style, though.
My best nights go something like this: A late night surprise trip to the diner. A tomato and American cheese omelet with hash browns, rye toast, and coffee. Slumped in the booth. Comfortable conversation and long looks at the dessert carousel.
* I have met (and dated) my share of cheap half-assers, after all.
** I mean, I even have a list of nicer places I’d like to go should the time/opportunity/occasion/apocalypse arise. And I’m not sure if I can stress enough how much I love eating.