Don’t date a man who treats you like leftovers

Don’t date a man who won’t eat your cookies.

I added this dating maxim to the never-this-man-touch-you bible that I keep on my computer. My collection of divine principles has expanded dramatically because the warnings I distilled from my latest pairing disaster are heavy and spicy.

In addition to the typical farewell mirepoix, this farewell stew also includes a short about a broken life together; a doll of a failed engagement; and the juice of a canceled wedding. I was overwhelmed with heartburn, humiliation, and regret—it started happening on our first date.

I just turned 30. I wanted to erase my sexy-to-busy corporate lawyer life and make time to date men I could introduce to my mother without She had to roll her eyes and grit her teeth, so I moved. back to Los Angeles from New York City. I’ve heard bad stories about dating in LA from my girlfriends. However, I consider myself lucky to have been noticed early on by someone with such potential.

It was an old acquaintance from college. We reconnected at a friend’s wedding and we have a lot in common. In addition to sharing our love of local rap music with a smooth G-funk beat, we love drinking brown wine that makes your voice hoarse the next day, and we also share the importance of which I find fascinating. Phillip has had an important job in the technology industry and degrees from important institutions (Stanford and the University of Pennsylvania). And he was ready to move back to LA (also his hometown) to start a family.

I wanted him to be “the one” and was willing to allow him to rise above that opportunity. I wouldn’t say that I was physically attracted to him. I was captivated by the laughter we made together. I found his sense of humor and familiarity very appealing.

“I got us tickets to the street food theater at Exposition Park,” he said. “Tonight, they’re showing ‘Purple Rain.’ You’ve never seen it, have you? ”

I haven’t seen the movie Prince but know the song very well. We were flying over West Adams and on our way when he finally revealed the details for our first date.

He had been planning his surprise date for weeks and even flew in from the Bay Area to take me out. I was impressed by the thought he put into the plans.

We crept up to the familiar sounds of KJLH as he turned left from Jefferson Avenue onto Figueroa Street. The smell of chocolate and sugar filled the air inside the car. I glanced back in the direction of its source: a small cardboard box, sealed with a criss-cross lace bow. Its contents? Baked goods from Milk Jar Cookies.

I winced but remained silent. When he picked me up from my apartment in Miracle Mile, I gave him cookies as a first date gift, a thank you for making me feel blessed and important. I was very disappointed when he put the box in the back seat of the car without looking inside. He told me he liked freshly baked cookies, and I believed him.

We pulled into the Exhibition Park visitor parking lot and got out. We were surrounded by people dressed in regal and their best “Purple Rain” Prince in a song memorizing Royal Evil. It’s been about a month since Prince passed away.

I began to remodel myself, pulling the hem of my black off-shoulder bodycon dress and tying the straps on my black leather Chucks. I noticed I was also wearing mourning clothes.

We visited Expo Park’s various attractions for the first time, exchanging lively exchanges along the way. We got to see a showcase of West Coast hip-hop photography at the African American Museum in California. We grazed the rose garden, at that time of year, a dry patch of thorny ground. We tried to enter the Natural History Museum but were denied by a security guard’s blinking glance, as it was close to closing time.

Instead, we picked up a cooler bag of movie franchise accessories from the car, then headed to a central space in the viewing area. He left the box of cookies.

“I’ll eat them later,” he told me when I asked him why he didn’t bring them. My chest tightens with excitement. Again, I shut my mouth.

We lay down on our blankets, visited some Prosecco, and talked happily about Carmen Electra as she sobbed through her keynote introduction to the cult classic. After the movie, we extended the evening by enjoying an evening of hookah at Lotus on Flower before ending the night at my place.

“How are the cookies?” I asked the next day.

Because he left them in the car overnight, they hardened, he said. “I really didn’t like hard cookies, so I gave them to my parents. I appreciate this gesture. “

I don’t feel appreciated. I was very angry, but I hid it. I continued to fight my discomfort in silence. I let it all be buried deep in my seething belly and burning heart until I exploded four years later. That’s when he revealed that he was, and always has been, a cheater. He waited until last month when he proposed to me to finally start a monogamous marriage.

When he admitted his monthly shortfall, I was shocked, devastated, angry and scared. He confessed on orders from our couples therapist after he moved into my home and five months before our destination wedding. We were over when I heard his confession, but it took some time (over a year) for me to completely untangle my life and myself from him.

The warnings were there from the start. I turned my back on the signs and let my attachment to “major” take on more importance. The missed cookies from Milk Jar heralded our results. I was not ready to see the truth in their prophecy.

Proverbs updated: If you give a man a cookie and he treats your food as unwanted leftovers, he’s signaling his intentions. So be prepared to speak up about it or walk away. Your cookies deserve better.

The author is a writer and lawyer living in Inglewood. Find more of her work at Her on Twitter and Instagram: @greenpoopluver.

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