I met him online, and yesterday we finally met in person. At first, it felt like any normal date — we laughed, made small talk, and picked a restaurant.
Then, while waiting for our food, he dropped it: “You’re bigger than what I usually prefer.” My stomach sank. If I’m not your type, why am I even here? My face fell, and he quickly added, “I didn’t mean anything by it, I think you’re pretty.” Pretty? The word sounded hollow.
We tried to continue the conversation, but the energy had shifted. He asked about my passions. I told him about art — about painting, drawing, dreams of my work hanging in galleries.
He scoffed. “Don’t you think it’s wiser to focus on something practical? Most artists don’t go far… at least not until after they die.” My heart burned. So my dreams are worthless in your eyes? I told him society is losing color because it devalues artists. He didn’t understand.
Then he asked if I wanted a family someday. I said I didn’t want kids. “A red flag,” he said. Excuse me? That was it. I slid my credit card across the table, asked for a to-go box, and walked out.
Later, he texted: “I’m sorry if I offended you. Was it the weight comment? I didn’t think you’d be so sensitive.”
Sensitive? No. I was angry. Angry that a stranger thought he had the right to diminish me, my passions, my choices, my body — all in a single hour. I blocked him, and yet a tiny, nagging voice whispered: Am I really too sensitive?
Sometimes the cruelest truth isn’t what they say — it’s realizing how little they value you.
