My two big date deal breakers are someone with no sense of humor

In the words of Elizabeth Gillies, “My two big date deal breakers are someone with no sense of humor and someone who chews badly.” Though it may seem spoken in jest, these words conceal the wisdom of ages — for they speak of the two realms that reveal the essence of the soul: joy and grace. The first is the fire of laughter that lights the heart; the second, the quiet discipline that governs one’s outward being. One who lacks the first lives in shadows, and one who neglects the second dissolves in disorder. Together, they form a measure of harmony — the laughter of the spirit and the composure of the body.

From ancient times, the sages have known that laughter is not mere sound — it is the breath of life. It springs from understanding, empathy, and shared delight in the absurdities of existence. To laugh is to declare, “I am human, and I find beauty in imperfection.” In contrast, the humorless heart is heavy, chained by solemnity, blind to the divine comedy of the world. Such a heart cannot dance with the rhythm of another’s soul, nor rejoice in the fleeting miracle of companionship. To Elizabeth Gillies, the absence of laughter is not a trivial fault; it is a sign of a spirit unready for the communion of love.

Yet, her second decree — that she shall not abide one who chews disgustingly — is not vanity, but the call for grace in the small things. For the manner in which a person performs even the simplest act — eating, speaking, listening — reveals the architecture of their inner world. In the East, the ancients taught that one’s spirit could be known by how one holds a bowl; in the West, the philosophers said that civility is the mirror of the soul. To chew with care is to move with mindfulness; to chew carelessly is to announce one’s indifference to harmony. Thus, what seems a jest about dining is, in truth, a sermon on presence, restraint, and self-respect.

Consider the tale of Marcus Aurelius, Emperor of Rome and philosopher of calm. Though ruler of legions, he ate his bread simply, quietly, and without spectacle. His soldiers said that he chewed as though listening to the gods. In this, he displayed mastery — not of armies, but of himself. Yet many who have commanded less have dined as beasts, unmindful of grace, consumed by appetite. Their downfall was not born in war, but in the banquet hall, where they forgot that discipline begins with the smallest acts. Thus, even a morsel can reveal a man’s soul.

And laughter — ah, that divine echo of creation! Recall Abraham Lincoln, whose humor softened the storms of a divided nation. When despair surrounded him, he answered with wit, not to mock but to heal. His laughter did not deny sorrow; it transcended it. In humor, he found wisdom; in lightness, he found endurance. To live without laughter is to deny the medicine of the heart. To share it is to bind wounds unseen.

From these two pillars — humor and grace — rises the art of companionship. Love, if it is to endure, must dwell where both are honored. The one without humor becomes brittle, shattering at the first trial. The one without grace becomes careless, corroding trust with small indignities. To choose wisely, therefore, is not to seek perfection, but balance — to find one whose laughter restores the soul and whose manners reflect reverence for life.

So let this be the lesson passed down: seek not beauty of face, nor wealth of form, but the beauty of laughter and the discipline of grace. Watch how a person smiles when the world mocks them, and how they chew when none are watching. For in these two moments — mirth and mundanity — the truth of their spirit is revealed.

And to all who walk the path of love: let laughter be your offering, and mindfulness your guide. Eat with gratitude. Speak with mirth. Live so that others may say, “Here is one who laughs well, and lives well.” For in that harmony, both divine and human, lies the secret of enduring joy.