I love food: fresh oysters, bacon cheeseburgers, foie gras, Taco Bell. And I like men: Robert Downey Jr., Kris Kristofferson, Jean-Paul Belmondo, Mr. Darcy. In both arenas, my tastes vary widely, but I think it’s important to derive pleasure from all different kinds of tasty objects. When it gets right down to it, I’m a shameless epicurean. Would it be any fun for me to date someone who isn’t? Yeah, I know, Paula Abdul and a certain animated cat sang the praises of the attraction of opposites in a seminal pop song no one will soon forget, but what if your very value systems just don’t jive? What if the cornerstone on which you’ve built your social life—the pursuit of pleasure—isn’t shared by your mate?

The first warning sign should have been that he’s Catholic. I mean, a Catholic’s idea of sustenance is the body and blood of Christ, and they’re as accustomed to feelings of guilt as some of us are to creepy old men at Dunn Bros; it’s a daily reality.

The second red flag was waved when he said he sometimes “forgets to eat all day.” Granted, this is sort of endearing in an I’m-fed-by-the-food-of-my-thoughts-creative-endeavors-and-meaningful-social-interactions kind of way, but it’s certainly nothing I understand first hand. Every once in a while, I’ll be so hopped up on espresso and cigarettes that the idea of food sounds pretty noxious, but this happens about four times a semester and is by no means the secret to my girlish figure.

The last and final straw was when I asked this boy on a lazy Saturday morning if he wanted to get brunch together. My spirits were already perking up at the idea of steaming cups of coffee and a plate that runneth over with hollandaise. He replied that he was “trying not to eat as much,” as he has “been feeling fat lately.”

I was shocked. I was speechless. The guy might be a little soft from too many late-night dates with PBR, but he’s about as portly as Woody Allen. Frankly, I don’t want to date a guy with body issues. As a girl, that’s my job and I’m on a permanent Tahitian vacation.

But this isn’t about food, and brunch isn’t about eggs benedict, really. I wanted to waste away the early afternoon with a boy I have a crush on, both of us tucked into a booth with fuzzy sweaters and bedhead. I’m not going to force-feed an overplayed “food as sex” metaphor; remind yourself how gross Mickey Rourke is and watch 9 1/2Weeks for that. In a more general sense, this is about pleasure, leisure and yeah, maybe self-indulgence. I can’t help but wonder if a reticence to eat sausage first thing in the morning signifies a certain lack of joie de vivre.

I’ve been to five dinner parties in the past month. While the menu is always ambitious and pulled off with casual aplomb—risotto with asparagus spears, stilton-stuffed chicken breasts, homemade Caesar salad, anchovies, raw egg and all—the food is really a means to an end: flirting by candlelight, getting flushed from too much wine, walking home with a bellyache from too much laughter.

“It’s not terribly important to have lots of common interests with a partner,” said my super sagacious friend and maker of the Caesar salad, “but if one of you really enjoys food and the other doesn’t, it’s hopeless.” If, let’s say, one of you can go on endlessly about the glories of bacon or roast duck with peaches, and the other keeps a well-loved copy of The Zone within arm’s reach at all times and has inspirational photos of Brittany Murphy tacked up on the fridge by a magnet that says, “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels,” it’s probably not meant to be. The food issue is really just a symptom of the larger problem that one of you lives on the southwest corner of Hedonism and Wicked Fun and the other has only been there once on field trip to view the natives.

Food (as well as sex, alcohol and any other form of recreation so good it’s been known to drive people to excess) is contrived for some people into a sticky web of shame and self-denial. I love first kisses, SA glazed donuts, and a stiff drink. While all of these things, at one time or another, has given me a tummy ache, I try not to beat myself up about it. Those of you who pull your chairs right up to the dinner party table of life with a healthy appetite free of guilt, take my advice: you would perhaps do best not to save a seat for anyone averse to treating themselves with a tenderness typically reserved for a roast leg of lamb.