I am Short
I am Short
While it’s not entirely obvious to me, it’s something that’s instantly known to other people: I am short. I’m five foot two on a good day but that’s the liberal view of my height.
The problem with being short is not so much in the actually being short but the way that other people react to it. Aside from the limited availability of pants for short people, most average and taller-than-average height people fail to realize that being short means I can’t walk as fast as they can, can’t hold onto the hanging straps or overhead bars in subway cars, and can’t reach the top rail of clothing in stores (which is, oddly enough, where stores that do have clothes for short people often hang them).
I understand that, from the perspective of someone who is average height or taller, these are not easy things to grasp. But there are days when I don’t want to be the ambassador for short people.
Over the weekend, my tall friend and I were at Hampstead Heath and, though he’s normally conscientious of the fact that I am short, he was racing around the Heath (rather pointlessly, I thought) and expecting me to keep up. Racing around anywhere is not my idea of a pleasant Saturday. Yes, even if it’s in the park. Having raced to keep up with him for half an hour as we dashed from one end of the Heath to the other to meet his grandmother, he decided he wanted to go back to where we had set off from to have lunch.
I couldn’t do it. Having been on the go the whole day I said ‘I don’t care where we go or what I eat, it’s more important for me that I spend some non-stressful time with the two of you. I want to sit down.’ So we sat down for a while but, having been racing around most of the day, I was too tense to thoroughly enjoy the Heath on a gorgeous autumn day.
Then later that day, on the way back from the theatre, my friend jaywalked without warning, leaving me with too little time to get my short little legs across the street without being hit by oncoming traffic.
When I got to the traffic light and did cross, I pointed out that I know we’ve talked about this, that I can’t cross streets as fast as he can, and it’s pointless for him to run across streets when I’m with him because he’s just going to have to wait until I can cross, anyway. He was apologetic and I was frustrated after a day of feeling sort of put out by having to match myself to his speed.
In Which Our Heroine Remains Single
For the past few days I had been thinking perhaps I was dating someone, which is one of those tricky things. My brother came into town on Saturday and I was mulling over telling him that perhaps there was someone, but I refrained, wanting to wait until I knew in a shouting it from rooftops sort of way.
Then today, the day I was supposed to go out with said possibility, he cancelled. In itself, it is not such a big deal, but in the greater scheme of things, was the event that started today's decline into lousiness. I started thinking that, looking back on our interactions, that perhaps he doesn't like me as much I thought and that, whatever we have, it's not a relationship. I then started thinking about how much I wish I were doing something even remotely connected to my skills, how I'm 28 and single and surrounded by friends but still terribly lonely, and how some days I'm entirely convinced my life would be much easier if I were taller, blonde, and white. It's entirely easy to say you're comfortable with who you are, but when you're stuck in perma-singleville and can't buy pants that fit because they're all too long, sometimes it's lovely to think about how life might be easier.
Experiencing a shortage of appropriate length pants is not tragic but being stuck certainly is. I reached a point today when I thought 'London, Doha, DC, who cares? Is my life really going to be so different wherever I go?' Here I am in London feeling exactly as I did in Atlanta: underemployed and mad that I'm not ever in a relationship.
The bad thing about being single, part 1
I just read the Vows section in the New York Times, which is admittedly one of my favorite parts of the paper. I like reading peoples' love stories, even on days like today when I realize that mine just don't exist. Having now determined that the guy I may or may not have been dating has now turned simply into the guy I'm not dating, by nature of the fact that I'll text him about something important to me and he'll text back saying he'll call me, and he doesn't, I was feeling a little melancholy today. I understand that this guy has a complicated life but I feel that shouldn't preclude him from making a two minute phone call.
With this in mind and feeling rather cranky for various other reasons (such as: I'm hungry, my uncle was driving me crazy, I want to see my friend Nic but I have to do my laundry so it couldn't be for long), today I really wanted to be comforted by someone who loves me. And that's where being single begins to suck.
Dreamboat
I'm currently temping as a recruiter and recently received a resume I decided I loved. I loved it because the guy was a definite over-achiever, he had founded his own company, he traveled a lot, he listed 'sustainable development' as one of his interests (that made me laugh, actually), he has earned salaries twice as high as I'll probably ever earn, and he's 30 and single. My colleague and I started joking about how I was turning the recruitment consultancy business into a dating business once I decided I heart-ed the resume, and I became increasingly interested in meeting this man.
Luckily, we have to interview him.
Today was the day of his interview, 15.00, and at 15.01 I turned to my colleague and said 'he's late.'
He turned up less than 10 minutes later, apologized, and explained that it's been quite some time since he's taken London Transport, as he hasn't lived here for 5 years. My colleague and I couldn't have cared less. We were just glad he turned up. The resume I loved looked even better in person. He was achingly well-spoken and passionate about his interests, fantastic looking, and wore a camel colored coat that draped beautifully. I thought 'Why does he have to be my client? Can I quit my temp job so I can ask him out? It's just a temp job. Surely I'll find another.'
Oh, beautiful men. I've been lamenting the fact that the man I may or may not be seeing has gone missing again but I sometimes forget that there are choices. Just when I've had it with men, in walks a dreamboat like this guy and it's like I've hit the man lottery. Except my winnings are in escrow?
