On Wednesdays, Amanda Chatel will be sharing stories about her strange, fascinating and sometimes wonderful dating life. If it makes you want to date, check out TheGloss dating page.

Last night as I weeded through my delivery bag from Westville, I was shocked at all the condiment packets that were at the bottom. Does anyone put mustard on asparagus? Is this a thing now? Of course, I tried it out. If this is a thing now, it’s a bad thing.

As I tweeted yesterday (because I like to tweet my issues with society every chance I get), I do not care for people who have a thing for stocking up on condiment packets. I put them in the same category as those who, even if they don’t use them, take the mini-toiletries from hotels. Why do people do this? And who even uses those products unless you’re at a spiffy resort that offers Aveda shampoo and conditioners? I don’t understand.

Earlier this summer I went out with some friends in the East Village. We had too much to drink at Cherry Tavern (they have an amazing jukebox, by the way), and before the night was over, I was chatting it up with a tattooed fella. I do love the tattooed boys. I was the only single one in the pack of ladies, so as they were texting their sweeties about what time they’d be home, the guy and I decided we’d leave them to their relationship obligations and go over to Crif Dogs. It was packed, as it usually is at 330am on a Friday, so our brilliant idea was to head back to my apartment, but place our order on the way so both the food and us would arrive at the same time. And it did! Magical, isn’t it?

So there we are indulging in chili cheese fries and hot dogs covered in everything and anything you could possibly imagine and we’re having fun. And I’m thinking to myself that although this wasn’t a planned date, it definitely falls into the date category now and based on our banter and similarities, we should obviously get married before the summer is over.

We finish our food and despite the fact that we’ve both opted for such things like raw onions and jalapeños on our hotdogs, we start making out. He spends the night, it continues to be fun and we finally pass out once the sun starts to rise.

The next morning, or rather afternoon, when we finally stir from our night of too much drink and food, we prepare to say goodbye, exchange numbers and all that stuff you do after a one-night stand even if your intention is to never see that person again. Between looking for his boxers, his wallet and his phone — three very important items — he’s also loading up his bag with the remaining condiment packets from our delivery just a few hours before. There are A LOT of condiment packets sprawled all over the table and he picked up every single one of them. I didn’t say anything; I just let him do his thing.

I walked to the sink to get water and realized that there were a few more packets, unopened, in the sink. I jokingly offered those packets to him as well. Honestly, I expected him to laugh, for us both to laugh and for him to snub them… but no. He took the four ketchup packets, that were wet, from my hand and put those in his bag, too. Interesting. I somehow managed to keep my judgment under wraps, kissed him goodbye and off he went with a bag full of ketchup, mustard, relish and mayonnaise.

To the best of my knowledge, he didn’t seem to be lacking in funds that he needed those packets as a means to survive. He’s a graphic designer at a major magazine here in the city, so I’m sure he does quite well for himself financially.

I left for Colorado two days later.

I’ve heard from him a few times, but I’ve yet to see him again since I’ve been back although it is on my list of things to do once I return from the beach next week. But seriously, is this some sort of compulsion? If I do see him again and end up at his apartment in Brooklyn, will it be strewn with condiment packets galore? I know he lives alone and that makes for easy hoarding if one was so inclined to move in that direction. I hoard Vogue magazines, but at least that seems useful because I do go back to them over and over again to look at my favorite dresses. You can’t go back to a condiment packet; once it’s done, it’s done — and they’re not even pretty to look at should you decide not to use them.

It’s just all so confusing.


Photo: The Condiment Packet Gallery