We are a nation divided. We turn everything into a screaming, spitting, knock out, drag-down, roid-rage, teeth-baring, battle when it comes to the topics of war, religion, the president, abortion rights and on and on, there is always this side and that side, clearly split, divisive, unmovable. And then there’s my side. Of fries. I went on a date. I ordered fries and a salad. He said to the server, “Does the club sandwich come with fries?” The waiter said yes. He ordered the club. Then he CANCELED MY FRIES. This is the Thread I posted on Thursday night. As of now it has 4.2k replies and 7k likes. I’m always amused by the polarity of something so seemingly benign. It’s not benign though, because it’s not about the fries. (Is it ever?) And as you can imagine, the people are out for blood. Or maybe ketchup, in this case. Me, I like a swirl of creamy aioli in addition to the tang of ketchup, but if they don’t have it I’ll settle for mayonnaise. I’m chill. I’m easy going. Don’t cancel my food order though. It’s controlling. And cheap. And painfully unsexy. Here’s what happened… After a creep-tastic interaction with an infamous writer I made the grave mistake of meeting on a celebrity dating app (I won’t name names, but I will tell this story at some point.) I made a declaration to my friend Brooke, who I was staying with in New York. “I am DONE with this shit! I am done with the effort of the connecting, and the chatting, and the getting-to-know-you-politeness. The flirting, the sexting, the trying, the scheduling, the planning, hemming, hawing. Being easy going, agreeable, pretty, clever, and all of it, really. I’m done with the apps. I’m done with dudes. I’m de-centering them. Unless a man just walks up to me in real life, introduces himself and makes it easy, I am done. I’m just gonna focus on me.” Right after this statement, Brooke and I went to the Soho house, where she is a member, to work on our laptops and have lunch. At a nearby table, a potentially attractive man twinkled his eyes at me and smiled, so I smiled back. When Brooke got up to use the bathroom, he approached, confidently. Confidence gets me every time. I was sitting, he standing, the sun behind him causing a halo effect, so I couldn’t get a full read, but he seemed nice, engaging, and I think more than anything I was impressed and excited by my obvious witchery in calling this specific occurrence in so quickly. So I gave him my number. He also asked for my last name. I assumed so he could google me. We planned to meet for lunch. The next morning he suggested we meet at the Soho house. If you’re thinking, wamp, wamp, wamp, you’re not alone. The entire city of New York awaits, and you want to repeat where we had lunch the day before? Well, it was a different Soho house location. So I agreed to walk the mile across town to meet him at the meat packing district one. For his convenience. Because he also mentioned he’d be working there. It felt more like a drop in than a lunch date, but, whatever. When I arrived, he was out by the pool, all pasty in Bermuda shorts. I almost wrote “ugly Bermuda shorts”, but then realized I didn’t need the adjective as it is implied. I think he wore the kind of socks that dip below the ankle bone. A serious offense in my book. (I’m sorry if you like these things, but might I suggest a regular sock or no sock at all?) I was not in pool attire. I was in Prada. Having made an effort to get all cute for my lunch date. Instantly I wanted to leave, and should have. I’d already reneged on my whole ethos of not wanting to put any effort into something that is so very clearly WHATEVER, but there I was, and in my bloody blister causing walk, I’d worked up an appetite. So when the waiter came by, I ordered a side of fries. The fries at Soho house are the best thing about the place. And a salad. Fries and a salad is the optimal lunch. Then, he asked the waiter if the club sandwich came with fries. When the waiter said yes, he ordered it, then said, “we don’t need the other side of fries. You can cancel that.” I wonder what my face did. But, here’s where it gets hideously shameful and I hate myself. I don’t hate myself, I hate that I’m trained to be polite, and people please. I guess it’s called a “fawn response” and it’s a trauma reaction, one I had without thought. As the waiter walked away, I said, “Oh, okay, well, I probably can’t eat a whole thing of fries on my own anyway.” I fucking said that. Unprompted. He didn’t ask me if I was okay with this. He didn’t run the new French fry plan by me. I just said it. Because I was embarrassed for him, so I jumped in to rescue him. All while being unable to look him in the stupid eye. His eyes were stupid, too. They were too blue, like he was wearing aqua-mermaid-color contact lenses. I think his hair was highlighted. As we waited for our food, I tried to distract myself from my self betrayal by asking him questions. He told me about the script he was writing. Then he mansplained the film and tv industry to me. I should have just let him. Instead, I was like, “yeah, I know how it works because I come from that world. I’ve worked extensively in film and tv.” And I started talking about myself, like a weird idiot. Did he not google me? I googled him. I saw no film and tv credits. I don’t know. I’m embarrassing. Because then I talked about my book. I straight up said, “I got kidnapped when I was twenty. I’m writing a book about it.” Normally, I would never say this kind of thing on a first date, I would dance around it, wait until like the third or fourth for that big reveal. But he canceled my fries, so I guess I wanted to make him squirm or feel guilty maybe. Passive aggressive, I know. It all happened so fast. He barely reacted to my bombshell overshare. This was not going well. The food came. He actually, physically took the little silver ramekin containing a tiny dollop of ketchup, and dumped half of it on the edge of his plate in a sad, red, smeary pile. So like, we wouldn’t have to share ketchup. This may have been the worst offense of all. I didn’t even bother asking for aioli cause I wanted to eat and run. I wanted to poke his eyes out. Brooke’s voice swam in my head as I remembered she’d said, “You’re going to want to stick pencils in your eyes and ears if you go out with that guy.” How did I not see this? What the fuck is wrong with me? Every second I sat there my self esteem tanked further and further. Funny how we internalize this shit. If I hang out with someone I dislike, it turns into me hating myself. Finally, I stood and said I had to go. He didn’t stand to say goodbye, neither of us pretending at this point. I should have… a million things. I should have done everything differently. I should have stuck to my guns about not wanting to “do effort”. Anyway, the whole thing led me to a feeling of exhaustion so great, I’ve stopped showering. I’ve lost interest in sex. Kinda kidding, but not really. From the comfort of my own filth, not wanting to move but still longing for connection, I posted that innocent little thread, and now it’s gone viral. Many people agree to the horror of having a man cancel your order, but then just as many are referring to what a whore I am for expecting a man to buy me a side of fries. Totally divided, like everything in our country, our society, our world. It’s not even about me, I’m not even in this fight anymore, the public has taken over and I’ve been depersonalized, now referred to as OP (Original poster. I had to google it.) I’m just tired. Tired of the trying, the awkwardness, and the whole world's endless brawl. If you need me, I’ll be napping, causing controversy as I sleep. P.S. my whole entire archive of posts is currently without a paywall, so get in while the getting is good. One more day! 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