There, in a small, messy, dorm room, wearing a baggy t-shirt, with no makeup, a boy referred to me as his girlfriend for the first time.A brown haired, brown eyed, hilarious boy, who just happens to be 5’8: a whopping three or four inches shorter than me. ) Now, this didn’t start out without paranoia, because it absolutely did.
Since coming to college, I have dated a few boys and with each of them, like all the rest, I judged them on their height.
I was pushing perfectly wonderful people away because they didn’t “fit” my definition of what I wanted out of a relationship.
It wasn’t until this year that my opinion started to shift.
It was this year when I began to get closer to a few individuals (specifically my boyfriend), and thought to myself, “wow, they’re so amazing…too bad they’re short.
I would definitely date them if they were taller.” Finally, after mentioning this to my friends a number of times, they finally told me how ridiculous I was being.
They told me they would rather see me happy than with a taller guy who treated me poorly.
I immediately realized how closed-minded I was being, I began to realize that height really wasn’t as important as I thought.
In fact, I was so sure in my answer that growing up, my sister and I developed the statement, “if you’re not tall you’re not family.” Now this statement didn’t develop out of hatred for shorter men, but out of the fact that we thought dating one would be weird and controversial.
We didn’t want people to stare or to be seen as Amazonian freaks holding hands with a “child.” As I got older and began to like boys, one of the first things I noticed, sometimes even over personality, was their height.