GO.

New Year’s Eve, at a party, an acquaintance pointed her finger at my chest and demanded an answer. 

“Three things you like about The Egyptian.  GO.”

Well, I’m 33 years old.  Perhaps this didn’t make my official list of Resolutions, but no fucking way am I entertaining bullies in 2010.  I’m too old for it, bullies, so sorry.  Learn to speak properly, I’ll answer you. 

I dismissed the question awkwardly, since I’m not very good at not taking shit, yet. 

As it happens, I am now eating a big, juicy date and considering that conversation.

Months ago I’d bought dates (high in iron) and reported that they were “disgusting.”  The Egyptian said it was because I hadn’t gotten “the good ones,” which, he professed are not available at the grocery store.  Whether they are or not, I don’t know.  I didn’t look.  I was put off by them entirely, and I did not believe his story that there were “good” dates .  At any rate, it seemed to me that it was a one-off conversation.  We would both file it away and not think of it again.

So in walks The Egyptian last night with a bag of dates in his hand.   The good ones.  (Medjools, I think).

Now, I know it’s not like he walked in with a diamond necklace or something.  And I assure you, The Egyptian thinks nothing of the fact that he brought me these dates.  He was shopping in an Arabic store, saw the good dates and got them for me, end of story.  To him. 

It occurs to me that this is simply normal, considerate behaviour, but not behaviour I’ve been subject to in excess.  In the past, I have often felt like I spend a lot of time thinking about ways to show guys I care about them, with a disproportionate amount of similar care coming back at me.  Girls just want to know they cross their partner’s mind now and then.  The dates (and other similar examples – one time it was walnuts for my porridge) say I do. 

Another reason I like The Egyptian is he’d never point his finger at me and ask a question that is, frankly, none of his business.  Manners are sexy.

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