We were going out for pizza. He’d been very specific—he wanted pizza with chicken. But when we got to the restaurant, they didn’t have that option. No chicken pizza, no chicken on the side. I asked if we should go somewhere else, but we were already seated, and he said, “No, it’s fine.” Except it wasn’t. He refused to order anything. I was starving, so I ordered my own pizza. The waitress looked confused and asked if we were sharing. Nope. I ate a whole pizza while he sipped a latte and watched me like I was performing a solo dinner act.
It was awkward, but I chalked it up to nerves. He was good-looking, and I was feeling generous, so I agreed to a second date. This time, we planned to cook together. I imagined chopping vegetables, laughing over sauce, maybe a little flour on our faces. Instead, he suggested we grab frozen pizza from the store. I tried to make the best of it, but when he picked one without chicken—after all that fuss the first time—I couldn’t help but laugh. Apparently, chicken pizza was only sacred when unavailable.
We got back to his place, and he microwaved the pizza. Not baked. Microwaved. I tried to spark conversation, asked about his hobbies, his work, anything. But he was dull as bricks. Every answer was one-word, every question met with a shrug. I felt like I was interviewing a cardboard cutout. I gave it an hour, then made up an excuse and left. No sparks, no chemistry, and definitely no chicken. I realized I’d been more attracted to the idea of him than the reality.
On the drive home, I thought about how often we overlook red flags for charm. The chicken pizza saga should’ve been my clue. It wasn’t about the food—it was about flexibility, effort, and presence. He couldn’t adapt, couldn’t engage, and couldn’t even commit to his own preferences. I wasn’t mad. Just amused. Sometimes, the universe sends you a sign in the form of poultry. And sometimes, you have to listen.
I told a friend the story, and we laughed until we cried. It’s become a running joke now—“Is he a chicken pizza guy?” Meaning: does he make a fuss over nothing and then forget why? It’s funny how one awkward dinner can turn into a metaphor for dating. I’m grateful for the clarity, and for the pizza I got to enjoy solo. Honestly, I had a better time with mozzarella than with him.
So here’s to the dates that teach us what we don’t want. To the solo pizzas, the microwaved disappointments, and the men who confuse preference with personality. And to the reminder that sometimes, the best part of a bad date is the story you get to tell afterward.
