“I was paying over three grand a month for a one bedroom apartment in San Francisco. And that’s why I decided to move here and buy a house. I get that I’m displacing people … and families. You should have seen the family that sold their home to me. Nice people. Wish they could have stayed, but it just made sense for them – financially – to sell their house to me. They wanted to be able to send their kids to college one day. And there’s nothing I can do about that – it’s just true,” my date looked down at his drink, swirling the ice around. It took him eight minutes to order it. And now he was looking down at this top shelf liquor with mild disdain. I guess we were all feeling some buyers remorse on this date.
This little speech about “displacing people” was his way of letting me know that he owned a big fancy house. But mostly it felt like a douchey ploy, veiled as a confession to absolve him of his classist guilt and create a veneer of intimacy.
I could hear myself say, “that sounds tough.”
Not sure how we got to the next topic: FRUIT. He told me that he didn’t eat fruit. WHY? When he was four years old, he ate a bad cherry and that turned him off fruit forever.
“I think it must have been rotten,” he said.
“How about peaches?”
“Nope.” Continue reading