It is official: I hate dating.

I had another one last night. A date, that is. It wasn't necessarily a bad date. He was a gentleman. He had a quasi-plan for activities. He was really quite sweet.

But, in the wide spectrum of male to female sizing ratios, the dear man made me feel much more like this:

than this:
(Neither are preferable, of course. But these are the two ends of the aforementioned spectrum.)

I am not a tall girl. In fact, I'd say I'm just shy of average. But Mr. Former Soccer Player had me feeling like a fire-breathing, genetically mutated, mythological dragon towering over the helpless streets of Tokyo. And I only had on a slim 1 1/2" wedge: small potatoes in the stilettoed world of women's footwear. I spent the evening feeling astronomically gargantuan and it just wasn't good for this chubby girl's ego. He certainly didn't mind; and, if my radar is adjusted correctly, I think he was jonesing for another date towards the end there. But, though I view myself as an independent thinker willing to step outside traditional gender norms and expectations, somewhere along the way I've been socialized with a need to feel smaller (at the very least shorter) than whomever I end up with.

My mother, I'm sure, will tell me I'm too picky when she reads this. And maybe I am. But he was daintier than I. I had flashbacks of shopping with friends in junior high school at 5 7 9, knowing I was more of an 11 or a 13.

And, more importantly, he lacked that intellectual spark I find so appealing (that intellectual spark makes up for a myriad of sizing disparities). And so I categorize this date as yet another learning experience about myself in relation to the single men of this world. I am officially putting this out into the universe, my dear Nerd in Shining Armor: ANY.TIME.NOW. I'm ready for dating retirement. Aren't you?

Godzilla over and out.