Guest contributer and fellow single lady Miss X gives her take on the dating scene and argues that size really does matter....
As a reluctant veteran of the internet dating scene I've become very open minded, and am even willing to overlook some of the most serious first date faux-pas. He turns up with a terrible haircut? Who am I to judge, I've had enough hair disasters to write a book about. Questionable clothes? So what, how many men really have good taste in clothes anyway, fewer still that find themselves still single at 30 and emailing complete strangers. No job? Well for many this is a breaker and I have to admit that I may ultimately become resentful of the fact that he gets to sit sunbathing in his back garden on a Tuesday afternoon while I'm stuck at work in a four hour meeting about procurement parity - but who's to say we couldn't have some fun getting to know one another, like some kind of Tracy Chapman song.
But there are some first date sins for which there is no redemption. Time after time I've eagerly awaited a casual drink with a brooding and sophisticated six footer only for them to come up...well... er... short. Now we all exaggerate our assets and play down our imperfections but it is surely only the most naive man who would describe himself as 6ft1 only to arrive to a hotly anticipated first encounter measuring up at a diminutive 5ft9.
Now I fully appreciate that not every man has a body worthy of the US Olympic swim team, but at a statuesque 5ft8, I simply refuse to conduct a relationship in flats. Having spent what can only be described as three absurd years in ballet pumps pursuing a doomed relationship I've become pretty militant about it. And without wanting to sound like my Grandmother (the archetypal middle class 1950s housewife) there are frankly very few outfits that cannot be improved by an elegant heel.
So you can imagine my bitter disappointment last Thursday evening when me and my 3 inch Dolce & Gabbana peep toes were once again deceived. The fact the he didn't seem at all concerned that his little white lie was inescapably evident was even more disconcerting. What else might he being less than honest about - a secret gambling habit? A morbid fear of kittens? An all-consuming addiction to percy pigs? Did he actually 'think' he was 6ft, suffering from some kind of strange body dis-morphia? My mind was racing, if someone had such a relaxed attitude to reality this would never work.
Suffice it to say, the evening came to a swift conclusion - don't worry, I was polite. After all, there's only ever room for one fantasist in any relationship - and I'm sorry fellas, that's always going to be me.
End
As a reluctant veteran of the internet dating scene I've become very open minded, and am even willing to overlook some of the most serious first date faux-pas. He turns up with a terrible haircut? Who am I to judge, I've had enough hair disasters to write a book about. Questionable clothes? So what, how many men really have good taste in clothes anyway, fewer still that find themselves still single at 30 and emailing complete strangers. No job? Well for many this is a breaker and I have to admit that I may ultimately become resentful of the fact that he gets to sit sunbathing in his back garden on a Tuesday afternoon while I'm stuck at work in a four hour meeting about procurement parity - but who's to say we couldn't have some fun getting to know one another, like some kind of Tracy Chapman song.
But there are some first date sins for which there is no redemption. Time after time I've eagerly awaited a casual drink with a brooding and sophisticated six footer only for them to come up...well... er... short. Now we all exaggerate our assets and play down our imperfections but it is surely only the most naive man who would describe himself as 6ft1 only to arrive to a hotly anticipated first encounter measuring up at a diminutive 5ft9.
Now I fully appreciate that not every man has a body worthy of the US Olympic swim team, but at a statuesque 5ft8, I simply refuse to conduct a relationship in flats. Having spent what can only be described as three absurd years in ballet pumps pursuing a doomed relationship I've become pretty militant about it. And without wanting to sound like my Grandmother (the archetypal middle class 1950s housewife) there are frankly very few outfits that cannot be improved by an elegant heel.
So you can imagine my bitter disappointment last Thursday evening when me and my 3 inch Dolce & Gabbana peep toes were once again deceived. The fact the he didn't seem at all concerned that his little white lie was inescapably evident was even more disconcerting. What else might he being less than honest about - a secret gambling habit? A morbid fear of kittens? An all-consuming addiction to percy pigs? Did he actually 'think' he was 6ft, suffering from some kind of strange body dis-morphia? My mind was racing, if someone had such a relaxed attitude to reality this would never work.
Suffice it to say, the evening came to a swift conclusion - don't worry, I was polite. After all, there's only ever room for one fantasist in any relationship - and I'm sorry fellas, that's always going to be me.
End
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