Tinder Date and Caesar Salad

What I know for sure is that those who want to place you in their beauty ideal and not your own are simply projecting their own fractured issues.

Remember, they are not yours. They don't belong to you.

I decided to drop my rule of engaging in days of banter to see if the random bloke behind the Tinder profile would be worth the effort of meeting.

I agreed to the immediate request of an attractive 47-year-old. I was intrigued. Being 40 years of age, my vision was clear of what I was seeking in a companion. He firmly stated that he was not looking for a hookup and was looking for a genuine connection.

(Ah, there may be hope for me after all.)

We chatted for a week leading up to the fateful meeting, and I was feeling optimistic that I'd made a good judgment call this time around.

The night before our date, he asked if I could send a distant picture of myself. With 6 recent pictures uploaded and a body shot, I was dismayed at this request. I was turned off thinking I was wrong and had snagged another caveman.

(Sigh)

My terse response relayed my disdain at his request. Immediately, he went into damage control mode. In the past, this would have been a red flag and reason to cancel but I decided to press on. Friends had often accused me of being too picky so this time, I threw caution out to do things differently.

Plus, I was eager to check out the trendy wine bar I suggested.

With my white skinny jeans, sleeveless emerald blouse and statement necklace, I felt fabulous as I waited his arrival.

After 30 minutes passed the agreed time, my enthusiasm waned.

My inner voice was sounding the alarm, ''am I actually being ghosted?’’

My ego started to bruise and my only consolation was my decision to sit in the dimly lit dining area, far away from the chattering loud patrons in the bar. No crowd to witness my lonely walk of shame.

C'est la vie! I resigned to my date night alone and definitely needed a drink, so ordered the arancini balls and a glass of merlot.

Then he walked in.

I was confused by how I was feeling. On one hand I was relieved and on the other I was completely annoyed. I thought, ''so now what?''

I chose to be cordial, except his excuse and press on.

He was attractive enough but the white loafers and blazer was too Miami Vice. And with all of what I was feeling, there was an immediate sense this would be the only date. Not just because he was incredibly late, but I could sense no love connection.

The server arrived to take his order and it was comic relief when this mature man needed approval from the server asking, ''is it okay that I have red wine with my caeser salad?’’

This struck me odd. Regardless, it kind of broke the tension

Personally my motto is: wine anytime.

As our food hit the table, he asked the server again, seeking confirmation that having red wine was an acceptable pairing with his salad. He asked this question no less than four times to where the server seemed confounded by it.

I wondered, ''is he nervous?’’

He recounted stories of past romances with woman who were beautiful but lacked substance then proceeded to list what he liked about my appearance including how impressed he was by my intelligence and verbal dexterity.

I drank in his compliments, still blasé towards him knowing there would be no second date. He even asked to whisk me away for the weekend and of course my answer was, "I've made plans already.''

His repetition and table manner became distractive, so I preoccupied myself with eavesdropping the nearby tables and ogling the handsome waiter. And just like other dates prior, I figured I'd made a new acquaintance having company for a night out.

Then things went from humdrum to sour really quickly when he asked ''if I liked going to the gym? 'Followed by, ''would you be willing to do cardio for an hour?"

He had my full attention.

(Flashback - remember when he asked for that distant picture of me?)

With my tail up and appetizer devoured I had the urge to trap him and call it a night. He was giving me easy revenge for his tardiness but it was almost too easy. I maintained calm to create the space for total honesty, then posed the standard question of "what is most important to you in a mate?"

He nestled his truth in a barrage of compliments then said, "You just need to tone up, then you'd be perfect."

My sinister laugh spoke for me.

He quickly tried to backtrack but it got worse. He pleaded with me to not be offended, saying he ''didn’t see me as fat, just a bit stalky.''

I was in disbelief at his level of cluelessness.

He pleaded again to not misinterpret what he was saying because he really liked me and knew that "some people are just big boned but we could work on that."

I nearly choked on my wine but it was too delicious to waste.

I reminded him that he was 3 years away from 50 and should know better than to focus on a woman's body weight or size, especially if you're trying to make a great first impression.

The last thing any woman needs, is a man who wants to make her into his perfect 10. You either like her the way she is, or you don't.

I shot back that ‘’my issues are an easier fix, but what about you: How do I fix stupid?"

I placed my money on the table with him cowering in front of me and offering to foot the bill.

I picked up my wine glass and took the last swig, flung my California curls back and walked out with my head held high.

I felt strong. More powerful than ever.

Unaffected by the criticism, I couldn't wait to share my story with friends and family.

The witness within me observed how far I’d come. All those years agonizing over being good enough, pretty enough, skinny enough were no longer tethered to me. Those dysmorphic strings left behind on that table like the crumbs of those rice balls. That final gulp of wine celebrating the end of a hard won battle.

I felt euphoric as I skipped along the street heading towards the subway home. Buried in the bright lights and loud clangs of bars and restaurants, I took a seat at the nearby parkette. I sat in silent reverence, interrupted by my own giggles of delight.

I reached into my tote to change into my ballet flats.

It was hard to contain myself. I was giddy as I took off my heels and realized that I was basking in the victorious glow of finally being comfortable in my own shoes.

I could stand in the paradox of wanting to improve myself and loving myself exactly where I was. My perception of my attractiveness was no longer seeking validation by the number of heads turned or compliments received.

I, and I alone, approved of me by my standards undefined by others.

I. Won.

And with that, I felt light as a feather.

''So dude, whatever your name is again, it's okay. You CAN have red wine with your Caesar salad.''