The Time I Met The Man Who Hates Peanut Butter

The first thing you need to know about me (and especially for this story) is that I love peanut butter.

It’s creamy.

It’s delicious.

It’s American.

We can argue the virtues of crunchy vs. creamy some other time (that deserves a post of its own and probably a debate panel and maybe local news coverage). What we cannot dispute is that peanut butter is the all-American treat that has no equal.

I met a guy at a café (again).

I should probably stop meeting guys at coffee shops. You’d think I’d learn…

Nice enough guy. Cute enough. We were having a lovely conversation, actually. It was both misogyny and racism free, which is always great, always a plus.

I’m scared of ghosts. Particularly ghosts who wear disturbing pointy hats…

Your guard is lowering, I can feel it. So was mine! Finally, a date that wasn’t going to end with me trying to escape the table like Steve McQueen!

And then he said: “I hate peanut butter.”

Without provocation, mind you. You can’t just put that out there without having to explain it. It’s like saying “The moon landing never happened.”

And, being me, I couldn’t help myself. I looked at him, obviously concerned for his mental health and stability. “Are you allergic?”

“No.”

“Is it the texture? I don’t like crunchy either…”

“No. I just don’t like it. I can’t have it in the house.”

“So, if you were in a relationship with a person…”

You see where I’m going, don’t you…

“… and that person loved peanut butter…”

“It wouldn’t work out. It’s the peanut butter or me.”

Silence.

“Well, that’s a dealbreaker then.”

We tried to talk around it for the next five minutes. He also stated, for the record, that he never goes north of 12th Street.

That’s ok. Everyone in Austin knows that everything north of 12th Street is PEANUT BUTTER COUNTRY.

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