I need to be very careful writing this because Toucan Sam is, objectively, one of the most dateable mascots in cereal. He's handsome. He's charming. He's well traveled. He has his life together. He asks questions. He listens. He remembers details. If you described him on paper, he would sound like he was created in a laboratory specifically to make the rest of the mascots look bad.

Which is why it took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that I was not actually the focus of the date.

The focus of the date was smell. Not smells. Smell. The concept itself.

About twenty minutes into dinner, I noticed Sam's attention drifting. At first I assumed it was normal date behavior. Maybe he was distracted. Maybe he was tired. Maybe I was telling a boring story. Then it happened again. And again. And again. Every few minutes his eyes would narrow slightly and he'd stare into the distance like a Civil War widow sensing her husband was lost at sea. Then he'd snap back into the conversation completely refreshed. The first few times I ignored it. By the seventh time I became convinced there was a gas leak.

At one point I asked how he chose where he lived and the answer somehow involved cinnamon. I asked how he got into cereal and the answer involved fruit. I asked about travel and received what can only be described as a TED Talk on airborne scent migration. By dessert, I was no longer talking to a mascot. I was interviewing a bloodhound with a passport.

What makes this frustrating is that he genuinely seemed interested in me. He asked thoughtful questions. He remembered things I had mentioned weeks earlier. He laughed at my jokes. He was kind to every employee we encountered. Then, without warning, a scent would drift through the room and I could physically watch his soul leave his body. One minute we'd be discussing life goals. The next minute he was staring toward the kitchen with the intensity of a man receiving classified intelligence. Then he'd return and continue the conversation exactly where we left off, as though he hadn't just astral projected toward a blueberry muffin.

The moment I knew the relationship was doomed happened near the end of dinner. We were having what I thought was a genuinely meaningful conversation. The kind where you're starting to think maybe this person is different. Maybe the rankings were wrong. Maybe you've finally found someone emotionally mature. Then Sam froze. Completely froze. His eyes locked on nothing. A smile slowly spread across his face. Somewhere in the restaurant, completely out of view, someone had ordered Froot Loops. I watched a fully grown mascot experience what can only be described as a religious event.

Months later, when we ranked Sam fifth, some people argued that he deserved better. They pointed out that he's handsome, successful, emotionally mature, and generally delightful to spend time with. All true. The problem is that every relationship requires attention, and Toucan Sam's attention belongs to whatever scent molecule happens to be floating through the atmosphere at that exact moment. I don't think he's choosing it over you. I genuinely don't think he knows he's doing it. If anything, that's the tragedy of the entire situation.