Read Part I here
Before continuing my story, I feel that there are some things that you know and understand about me so that you get the clearest picture possible:
I could be considered to have the build of the typical American woman: average height, about average weight, and yes, as far as the looks department, I’m average too. I do have some features that are slightly larger than average, though: a bigger butt, wide set hips and eyes, and a big mouth. There are only two things about me that could be considered small: my left foot and my right foot. Now, I don’t mean they’re like little bound-up baby feet, but people have often commented, “Wow, your feet are small!” I guess it’s a shock to their systems because they see my hips and ass and figure I have to have some giant boats to support them. My hands are also somewhat on the smaller side… as in, sometimes I’m able to trace my own hand and have it pass by as one of my larger sized student’s hands… Fine, I have small hands, whatever: something about me has to be dainty.
And now, since you have a basic idea of my #lewk, let’s continue.
With about four hours to go until I was set to meet Frank*, the 5’9″ lawyer who I had met online, I sent a quick text to check in with him about our meet-up, to which he said he couldn’t wait. I practically floated on a cloud to eat my lunch, which consisted of grilled chicken, apples and almond butter and baked root vegetables. At the time, I was pretty nutritionally conscious since I was going through some health-related issues, and I was also very into fitness. So take that average weight and shrink it down a little – just a little – and define the muscles a little bit more: to be clear, I was hotter back then.
As I was saying, I checked in with Frank and went about my day, anticipating our 5’oclock meet-up for drinks. The day went on without incident, and I was able to change after school into my date-appropriate wear: it was definitely more upscale and less “I-teach-five-year-olds” apparel. I like to keep it simple, so it was just skinny black pants, low wedges, and a teal top that showed off just enough. (Believe me, I had run the outfit by several of my friends, it had the seal of several approvals.) I looked good, and more importantly, I felt good.
I left work at 4 and onward I went to the incredibly upscale Carter Cantina. I had left myself plenty of time because if you’re on time you’re late and if you’re early you’re on time. To my absolute delight, the place’s patio bar was open, so I did not have to venture inside and put my downgrade dumpy self on display. I went ahead and made the executive decision that we were sitting outside for the evening: it had been a beautiful day, and it was slowly fading into one of those perfect evenings, the first one where it’s warm enough to sit outside. I was seated at a high-top on the restaurant’s by quarter-to-5, with a light beer in my grasp by 4:50. Around the same time, I received a text from Frank that he was running a little late, and my reply was along the lines of: “Okay! See you soon?” Five minutes, ten minutes, and then fifteen minutes passed by, and then finally, I received a text from Frank that he was 10 minutes away. At the tone, the time will be 5:15.
Now, if you’re picturing a person holding a red flag in the air, just know that you are slightly more ahead of me: at this point, that person is there, but the flag is securely holstered. I am, to a fault, somewhat of a softy-type person. I am usually kind and patient, and I am usually pretty forgiving. Shit happens, man. So I ordered another beer, and I stayed.
At about 5:25, a guy who had definitely just come from his office – suit without the tie and jacket – showed up on the patio by himself. Even from a distance, I could tell he was good looking, and he definitely was staring right at me. Now, most of the people who had come by were in small groups, spilling on to the patio, so this guy definitely caught my attention, too. I shielded my eyes from the sun and squinted in his direction, trying to determine, could be Frank? I casually held up my hand in a half wave, and he nodded… at the group of people behind me. I literally had whiplash as I watched him walk around behind me to his group of friends. The feeling of embarrassment and slight shame – flushed face, hot neck, slight pin-prickling in the armpit sweat – overtook me. Just as I figured that I was being stood up, I heard a voice behind me say my name, and I turned around to meet the voice that could only be Frank.
I stepped down from the stool I was perched on, ready to give a hug – and as I turned to meet Frank’s eyes, I immediately was looking over his head. Yes, I had to look down to meet his gaze. Granted, I was wearing wedges, but they only added two (2) inches, bringing me to a towering 5’7”. Frank held out his hand for a handshake, and my hand – MY DAINTY, LADYLIKE HAND – engulfed his hand. As I sized him up, I realized that Frank most likely still shopped in the big kid’s section of The Childen’s Place. 5’9” my ass: he was legitimately 5’3″. He could not have weighed more than 120 pounds soaking wet. Folks, what I’m trying to say is that I was out on a date with a petite man. If I got mad at him or found myself having to defend myself, I could have stuffed him in a trashcan and ran away. Nevertheless, I stayed – I honestly was too flabbergasted to move.
Listen, I really didn’t know how to handle the situation then and I don’t think I would even know the “right” way to handle it if it happened to me now, but I didn’t want to just up and leave. I figured that the guy probably just embellished a little bit about his height: he was probably sensitive about it… isn’t everyone sensitive about their size, be it height, weight, and even boobs or dicks? Like, I get it, I do. So I didn’t want to be rude – I’m nice, remember – and I sat down, smiled and was nice.
Until I couldn’t be anymore…