I just stopped seeing a guy, and among the reasons our mini relationship was dysfunctional from the start was one standout: He ate only chicken breasts. On Sunday nights, between staring out of his kitchen window and pacing around his apartment, he would cook 21 chicken breasts in a Crock-Pot and then ration them out for an entire week’s worth of meals. Three plain chicken breasts a day, seven days a week. If he was feeling extra wild, he would slather one in cold marinara sauce before inhaling it. Breakfast, lunch and dinner—that’s all he ate.
I assure you that he did this out of pure passion for boiled chicken breasts mixed with his love for never having to leave his apartment (please note that he also worked from home, making never leaving even easier)—not because he couldn’t afford to eat anything else. He could probably point to 20 restaurants and four grocery stores from the window of his downtown apartment, yet he still went straight for the murky-looking pot of Peapod-purchased chicken stinking up his fridge, for every meal.
Like almost any 25-year-old woman, I have a serious need for social interaction. Not to mention I get to live in one of the tastiest cities in America. While Mr. Chix was a stud, how does a gal who likes to spend seven out of seven nights a week eating out cope with a chicken-obsessed homebody? She just doesn’t.
“What is your favorite food?” and “How often do you eat it?” will now be serious questions I ask someone before I date him, because after Mr. Chicken I’ve learned that trying to adapt to a guy’s weird eating habits is for the birds.—C., 25/female/straight/single/Lincoln Park