Beach Love

Beach Love

By Lauren Huffman

My first date with Chris was one I didn't particularly care to go on. I was tired that night, but since we kept rescheduling I figured I should get it over with. I hastily walked out of the elevator and complained to my doorman, Abe, that I would rather be in my pajamas watching TV. He said some encouraging words and off I went.  

Less than an hour later, I returned. "He never stopped talking about corn fritters," I told Abe.

"Well, maybe it would have been better if you stayed in."

Upon reflection, I realized this poor man was single for a reason. He had no clue how to relate to others. Selfishly, I felt concern these types of people are all that is left in the single dating pool. 

So, I decided to take control because obviously, I could fix him. I asked him out for a second date. Slowly but surely, we started to become steady. Along the way, I naturally ignored the red flags he emitted.

For example, he concentrated greatly on his mediocre abs and loved to point out how mine could be better. Every time he would mention I don’t do enough sit ups, I ignored him. I chalked it up to his my first impression — he has challenges connecting with people. 

Seven months into our relationship, we started to plan for the summer. He wanted to start training for the Chicago Marathon in October. I told him I would help and run with him.

We would wake up at 5 a.m. and run along the lake. Not on the running/bike path, mind you, but actually along the lake, in the sand. I was not the best running partner; I am slow as hell and I hate sand. After a few weeks, he asked me to stay at home, which I understood. I wasn’t helping him advance his training. It was annoying him. Annoying like having, oh, I don’t know, sand in your shoe.

 Not the kind of running in sand we did. (Photo by:  Rayan Anastor Photography

Not the kind of running in sand we did. (Photo by: Rayan Anastor Photography

A week after we stopped running together, I received a text from him at work. When I saw his name pop up on my screen, I was elated. We didn’t talk much during the day. I opened the text anxiously looking forward to reading what was sure to be a sweet message. Waxing poetic of how he missed me now we didn’t have the extended time together in the mornings.

“You don’t like the beach enough and I feel you are becoming fat. It’s important to me we are an attractive couple. I am leaving your stuff with my doorman, please come pick it up by end of day tomorrow or it will be donated.”

Confused, I replied, “haha — what?”

After three months, I gave up awaiting his response.

Doorman Abe was right. I should have stayed home. Because my discontinued jeans he surely donated are irreplaceable.

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