I’ve been dating Jennifer for five months. She has this one small idiosyncrasy. Every meal she eats, about five bites in she starts making these noises, “Hmmm….Ohh..” This continues every few bites until the meal is finished. It doesn’t seem to matter what she’s eating, it’s always the same. I believe she could have a plate of cow brains sitting there, like that guy from the Food Network, and the reaction would be the same. Initially I thought it was kind of cute. About two months ago, it started to become a problem.

We had just returned to my apartment after enjoying a fine meal at one of the local eateries. At this point, we hadn’t slept together yet, but everything was pointing in that direction. Well, one thing led to another and the next thing you know there we are in bed. Everything was going fine until the thought entered my head; “I think she enjoyed that meal more than this.” Granted, she had a filet, but still. Luckily, I was able to finish what I started. I rolled over onto my back. Jennifer placed her arm across my chest and said:

“That was nice.”

Meanwhile, I’m lying there, staring at the ceiling, thinking, “Yep, she definitely enjoyed that filet more.” I didn’t get much sleep.

Once the door had opened on the intimacy, well there was no going back. As our intimate encounters became more frequent, it developed a major problem. At least for me — she knew nothing about it, of course. There was no way in the world I was having that conversation. The mere thought of it sent chills down my spine. I began comparing the reaction I got with the reactions she had to various foods. It got to the point where I could rate my own performance. I could imagine a reporter coming up to me, sticking a microphone in my face and asking:

“How do you think you did last night?”

“Somewhere between a stack of pancakes and a club sandwich.”

“That’s too bad.”

One night we went out, she told me she was thinking of the lobster. Lobster? Even in top form, I didn’t think I could compete with Lobster. I tried to talk her into a nice plate of tuna salad. Didn’t work. There was no passion that night. Too much pressure. So now, I’m steering us to the worst possible restaurants, or better yet, cooking myself. It hasn’t helped.

I’ve been analyzing this from every conceivable angle. I thought about introducing a tape recorder into the mix. At least this way I could tell if it was just my imagination. Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of an adequate explanation for having to record activities at the dining table and the bedroom. I think I could have explained using it in one place or the other, but definitely not both. I ran into the same problem with earplugs:

“Are those earplugs you’re wearing?” Again, there’s no acceptable response to this question. I wasn’t working at a sawmill.

If I didn’t like Jennifer so much I’m sure I could come up with a reasonable exit strategy. But, I do like her, maybe even love her. I’m in a tough spot. I’ve become jealous of a club sandwich.