A person’s online profile picture is worth a million dates only if their photograph measures up to what they look like in real life. Essentially, that’s what draws you to a virtual stranger to begin with, right? Looks.

What a disappointment it is when a prospective date doesn’t live up to your expectations, when you see them in the flesh for the first time. It’s even more disturbing when they turn out to be downright ugly or an unacceptably and shockingly hefty, large American.

Such is the case with a guy I like to call “Fatso” for an obvious reason. Judging by his photograph, he didn’t look skinny but I would never think in a million years he’d end up anything close to morbidly obese in person. I mean, during our web chats, he didn’t flirt like a fat guy by any account. He seemed to have all the confidence in the world. He was witty, charming, funny and despite the fact he was just average looking, it was ultimately his personality that enticed me enough to go out with him.

We agreed to meet at a restaurant he vowed was absolutely incredible and one of his very favorites. He told me in advance not to mind the ambiance since this was a place where the food reigned supreme despite the décor.

Set inside a Japanese mall, I took the escalator up to the third floor as per his specific instructions. On my way through the mall, I noticed I was the only non-Asian person around which I thought was a very good thing – now, it wouldn’t be too hard to figure out who I was about to meet.

I was a bit early (which is unheard for me) but I didn’t know the area and figured better safe than sorry. I stood atop the escalator looking down, waiting for my Prince Charming to ride on up. But instead, what I got was a very humungous version of everything but Prince or Charming. I knew it was him instantly. Firstly, he was the only other white person in the mall and secondly, when he said, “Hi I’m Phil”, that pretty much gave it away.

Forty-five minutes away from home and starving to death downtown L.A., I figured I might as well indulge in a meal with fat, I mean Phil. I tried to hide my disappointment which was really tough considering I began to feel slightly insecure that his breasts were larger than mine.

Did he not think I would figure out he was way heavier in real life than on the interweb? There’s only so long one can keep up the whole façade. Really and truly, it’s impossible to hide such a thing as obesity, isn’t it?

What Phil did was blatantly misrepresent himself, no question about it. As the yakitori kept being delivered by the truckload to our table, my anger surged to a red flag level. I began to lament and berate him in my mind. Who was he to lure me to a strange part of town in order to dine with a sumo wrestler? Speaking of sumo wrestlers, a little Japanese kid even came by looking for an autograph and we had to send him away from us… “Sorry kid, not this sumo wrestler. I know he looks like Umono, but no.”

To make matters worse, all throughout the meal Phil talked only about food, telling me about all the amazing places he’d eaten around the city. He told me where to get the best burger, best Brazilian BBQ and what diner had the best fries in South Central. “I’ve eaten at all those places,” he told me. “I believe you,” I thought.

My appetite dwindled as I watched him shove skewers in his mouth by the stick load and fight with his fork to get as much food onto it as possible. Even more so, I was turned off by the fare Phil proceeded to order. Intestines, liver, heart – sure, it was an exotic Japanese menu but what happened to all the normal non-vital organ meats on the menu like chicken breast per say?

“You really have to try the pulled pork,” he insisted. I misunderstood what he was saying to me and got defensive right away with this one. “There’s no way I’m giving you a hand job in this restaurant or ever, never ever at all,” I retorted with a look of complete shock on my face.

“I meant pork, as in pig,” he replied, very matter-of-factly. “Oh, pig. Right,” I was slightly embarrassed but that soon turned into disgust again.

See, I’m not strictly kosher or anything, but given the fact that we actually met on a Jewish dating site, his insensitivity to whether or not he assumed I obeyed strict Judaic dietary law was distasteful and ignorant. “Jews don’t eat pig,” I reminded him. Then, curiosity got the best of me.

“What is pulled pork anyway? Do they pull and poke the pig before they kill it?” I teased, trying to make light of the situation. In shock, he stared back at me as if I were a complete idiot. “Are you serious?” He laughed. “It’s a method of preparation in which the shoulder cut of the pig is cooked using a low-heat. Cooking over extended times at lower temperatures, the meat becomes tender enough that its weakened connective tissue allows the meat to be pulled or easily broken into individual pieces. You know what I mean?” My eyes bulging out, staring in disbelief, all I could say was, “Uh huh.”

I barely ate a thing and nursed a small bottle of sake throughout the meal, listening to his tirades on McDonalds which I was surprised to learn he wouldn’t touch with a two-foot pole.

At the end of our meal, Phil insisted we split the bill. “I don’t pay for girls on the first date,” he told me. “So should we just go Dutch?” “Dutch? Screw that,” I thought. Calculating one bottle of sake in my head, I threw down eleven bucks and got up from the table. “That’s for my bottle of sake and a piece of undercooked chicken,” I said, ready to bolt. He protested, “You can’t do that. “When you split a meal with someone, you don’t calculate dimes and nickels over who ate more than who.” Then, he added, “I’m sorry but that’s the polite thing to do.” After a moment of silence, he could tell I was upset but didn’t care. He added, “Just saying.”

Hands on my hips, unable to hold back a guffaw, I really let Phil have it.

“You want to talk about impolite? Let’s talk about it, dude. You clearly ate way more than I did and that’s seriously impolite to do on a first date. And speaking of rudeness, you may want to update your profile picture.”

“So I’m a few pounds heavier in real life than in my photo,” Phil retorted. He knew! Phil knew he was fat! “A few pounds?” I asked, sarcastic. “Okay, so I’m lonely and just wanted a date,” Phil looked down ashamed. Half of me wanted to shake my head and away, forget this incident ever happened and tell all my girlfriends the guy stood me up to avoid further discussion about this horror-date. The other half of me felt like I needed to say something to make Phil feel better.

“Look,” I told him. “There are plenty of girls who dig a guy with a few extra pounds. I’m just not one of them. But you’re a real nice guy,” I lied. He wasn’t nice. He was mean to me during the pulled-pork explanation during which I found his tone short of sincere. But there was no need to drive the guy’s ego into the ground. “Really, I mean it,” I said with a poised expression that should have won me an Oscar for best lead actress. The truth is, Phil shouldn’t go around tricking girls into thinking he’s anything other than what he is: an overweight guy who’s embarrassed about it. But that’s his fault – not mine. Point is, if you want to meet the right person for you, you’ve got the be the right person for them up front. No hiding behind computer screens. No expecting a few dozen extra pounds to be no big deal at the mercy of a personality that fails to measure up anyway. Just be yourself and be patient that the right person will come along. That being said, patience is worth its weight in dating.

I went back to the Japanese yakitori joint on another date months later and knew exactly what to order, courtesy of Phil. In that sense, our meeting served a purpose in the grand scheme of things in my life. Furthermore, Phil was right about every restaurant recommendation and for that, I’m thankful today. Tomorrow, I’ll likely loathe him after I eat a plate of truffle oil fries at Josie’s in South Central.

Do you think I was overreacting?