Roger Rabbits with Jim Bunny

Know about “icks”? We’ve all had them. Bit of a giggle in hindsight, but at the time they’re gamechangers, they turn “lerv” into loathe.

“Icks” are behaviours, idiosyncrasies, and foibles that trigger an explosion of repulsion to, and rejection of, a potential love interest. We’ve all been there.

Everything is fluffy and fairy-tale at first, the chat, the laughter, the fine food and the fuzzies. And then he does some spontaneous nasal mining; he may call you “love”, drop some veiled racism, or a fart, then take a call from “Mummy”. Leaves you squirming.

Suddenly it’s dead – you are outa love, outa here and outa his life. Choof! As the Aussies say. Off!!

Research from the Azusa Pacific University in California calls it “the rapid rejection mechanism” kicking in – nature’s way of culling rogue could-be partners before things get silly, before they get to the bedroom.

Game over 

I put “icks” out there for a couple of days and soon they were lining up with victim stories. Stories that, on the surface of it, might have made me seem like a good catch. Might have!

Like the woman who twice dated the miser Scrooge. Both occasions he suggested they “share” a couple of entrees as mains, then he chose which ones of course. Then a dessert, just one dessert, to be shared of course. Both times he wiped the plate clean with an index finger and licked it. She didn’t hang around to find out whether he licked the finger clean post-bathroom. The rapid rejection mechanism kicked in, kicked him into touch. Game over.

Seems women are more attuned to critical testing for long-term compatibility and togetherness than blokes. Apparently, 75% of women compared to 57% of men. Seems blokes can only think about the next five minutes of their lives.

Keith took what he described as a “comely maiden” out for dinner and she was immediately dropping her travel experiences into the conversation. “When I was overseas…when I was on the Costa Del Sol…when I was in Paris, Milan or on the Riviera.” Not one mention of Ulaanbaatar, Port-au-Prince, or Gaza. “Tiresome,” said Keith. “Who cares?” Not unrequited Keith. By main course he’d have gladly paid her next ticket to anywhere…anywhere but here.

Poke, nibble, pout 

The date who sulked terminally because her main course wasn’t what she was expecting. For an hour it was poke, nibble, pout. Poke, nibble, pout. There was no dessert and no second date.

There was the guy who held both his knife and fork with a fist grip. Slob! Then he’d stab his food. And his teeth clattered when he chewed. “Chink, chink, chink.” The rapid rejection meter went off: “Pull up, pull up, pull up.” That relationship was never going to work.

There are some obvious first date “iks” – the guy that patronisingly pats you, the person who constantly advises: “What you should do is….” There’s creeping soggy armpits and other hygiene issues, a bloke who wears a sweater under a suit jacket, someone who always has a story to upstage yours, or talks over you, and the chunky guy with a Grand Canyon bum crack that presents it at every opportunity and wants to talk meaningfully about his lepidoptery collection.

Some quick-fire “icks”. In a demonstration of first date bravado, the bully kicks over a homeless person’s coin can scattering the contents. What a guy! That relationship lingered as long as it took for the woman to stride off.

PDAs – Public Displays of Affection. Not hand-holding or a quick peck, but men with the vocal range of a dying cat serenading their belle in public, or reciting poetry. Ick!

The aggressive passenger seat who leaned over, seized control of the horn and blasted the car in front. The victim rightfully flicked me a bird and mouthed an obscenity at me. I was guilty by association. But ride finished at her place where I dropped her off. Forever. Thank you, rapid rejection mechanism.

Liar! 

Then an outpouring of marital “ick” from a colleague. “He bursts out with uncontrolled, over-reactive laughing, so loud I just want to punch him.” Irritating but is it “ick”? “I ask him to put something in the dishwasher and he will ask ‘the oven?’ I say: “No, the dishwasher”. And he says: “The fridge? What’s that all about?” And if you ask him what “ick-ed” him about me he would say: “Nothing, I love everything about you”. Liar! That’s ick!

I have to admit being an “ick-er”. I thought a date had gone swimmingly well but when I called back for seconds the love meter had tumbled well below freezing. Would have got more warmth asking Putin to give back Crimea. I must have accidentally turned off my charm and magnetism.