Before I start, to all the men out there who care about height, please ask me my height before the date so I don’t waste my time on you. I am 5’3” and for whatever reason, that means some dudes think I’m too short to date. I did not know this was an issue at all for men, until I started dating online. On most apps, I did not list my height at first. Not because I was hiding it, but because I truly did not believe it mattered. I did start listing it where possible at some point after I went on a date with one eligible bachelor who claimed we couldn’t go on a second date because how could we have sex with him being a burly 6’1”. Presumptuous much? Meanwhile I was thinking, how could we have sex with your ego taking up so much space?
But this story this isn’t about my height, but it does involve his. This financial planner did not have his height listed on his online profile, but damn was he a looker. I was looking forward to this date as if it were Christmas morning and I was eight years old. Hands down one of the most beautiful men I had spied on the apps.
I’m a firm non-heightest, I like all sizes and as such I will never ask; if I’m attracted to you, I’m attracted to you. I never want to make someone feel a variable that isn’t controllable to be something that they will be judged on. So when Philip walked through, all 6’7” of him, you can imagine my mouth dropping. Also recall, I was three weeks out of knee surgery, so all 5’3” of me, was in flats. He was suitably annoyed, and he showed it. The disappointment on his face when he looked at my feet was palpable. My heart pounded, not knowing what to say. I couldn’t even make a joke; based on the look on his face I calculated he would get rid of me after a respectable hour had passed, and I could go hide under a kid-sized duvet for the rest of the evening.
Despite the immediate let down of my small (but perfect) size, we went to an upscale bar in Piccadilly, and down came the cocktails. I was trying to use alcohol to calm my nerves. Sitting down, we seemed to normalize a bit and I tried to move the balance of power. I started learning a few things about him: he felt very special due to his job, his job allowed him to make 6 figures, and that he loved to fly to Miami to party. Insert ego stroke. He loved partying in Miami so much that he was going to Miami soon to party for two straight weeks. He was 34 by the way. I tried not to let his money-ego and party-boy ways detract from the fact that he may be a nice person, and that this was the ‘city boy’ form of showboating, but he was making it hard.
As the drinks became smoother, he started to prod about a certain club, promising they played amazing music and it was best place you could ever go for a good time. So we went. This club ended up being a tourist bar a stones throw from Tiger Tiger. Coincidentally, I had attended a few Zumba classes there the year before and recalled the floor was quite sticky, I now knew why. Being the ever ready team player, I decided the music was alright and to dance (hobble) the night away. He ran into a few people he knew (tourists?) and we cheers’d to a few shots before exiting at 1:30am.
I was surprised when he followed me out the door, when he waited for my taxi, and when he lunged. I don’t even know why, but I shoved my hand upwards, barricading the space between my lips and his and said ‘no, my taxi is nearly here.’ Why did I do that? I was physically attracted to him. He ticked a lot of boxes – self-starter, ambitious, good chat. But he failed in the ‘party is life’ department, I couldn’t possibly date someone who was going on a two week clubbing binger at 34. I did not find his poor adulating ability attractive. He might as well have burned his money, and remember he was a financial planner. Surely he knew a better way to spend it.
More to the point, his gut reaction to meeting me was a 0 out of 10, and there was not enough tequila in the world to make me forget that not only was he not instantly attracted to me, but seemly actively repulsed. Until he was drunk.
Couple that with his reaction to his first sniff of a Benjamin was enough for me to push away his advances, and politely let him down in subsequent texts when he asked me out again.
The knee was buggered and so was our would-be relationship. Our lives needed to somewhat match. He was gorgeous, rich, but just not that interested in me. I was glad I was starting to know the signs of someone who wasn’t interested in dating me, but may be interested in some action.
This was vital for me to distinguish. I notoriously had been unable to tell what exactly a man wanted from me, as I wanted only one thing – to be their girlfriend. It took years for me to understand that not everyone felt the same. I had no idea when men wanted me to be their dinner partner, their sex buddy, or (and very rarely) their future wife.
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