I was 15 and going through my ‘I’m 15 and am rebelling against my middle class upbringing by drinking Hooper’s Hooch in the local park’ phase when one particular night a Moscow Mule fuelled slagging match kicked off. It was the stereotypical girlie showdown, all nails, hair and bitchy namecalling and somehow yours truly managed to get herself caught in the crossfire which ended in the sort of hormotional overflow that needed a box of mansize tissues to stem. With no tissues on hand the next best thing just had to suffice. Fortunately for me that next best thing was 6’4″, deliciously handsome and possessing a pair of big strong arms. I still get all trembly of knee and fuzzy of head thinking about it; a flashback to the halcyon days where Thursday night was Rud’s followed by the Blue Ocean and the cool kids were wearing Adidas Gazelles and listening to Oasis and where I for the first (and only) time in my life felt like a proper girl.
Being 6’2″ and having brick shithouse tendencies meant I was never destined to be a girlie little pwincess who talks in an ickle baby voice and has a big stwong man who towers over her and makes her feel all cute and petite. Let’s be honest for a second, I have bigger feet than all men I know (unless they are related to me) and am pretty fed up of literally looking down on men and even if some men like being nose to chest with me the novelty soon wears off. I think it was Zoe Ball who once said that she wouldn’t go out with a bloke if she couldn’t fit in to his jeans, a public declaration that underneath the ladette exterior Ms Ball wants to feel protected and cute just like the rest of us.
I have a deep rooted fear that the man I end up with is going to be some sort of weirdo who has a fetish for tall women. For some reason I imagine him looking like Stanford Blatch from SATC but creepier. I don’t want someone who puts me on a pedestal and thinks of me as some sort of Xena Warrior Princess just because I am vertically blessed. It surprises people that I can be just as hormonal and emotionally sensitive as those cutesy little polly pocket sized girls as if along with my extra height I’ve been dealt an extra dose of toughness and am not subjected to an onslaught of overwhelming hormones every 28 days.
For all my thinking that I want to feel girlie and cute and for all my eyeing up bronzed bohunks over the height of 6′”2, every relationship I’ve ever been in has been with someone the same height or smaller as me who has been so incredibly skinny that a misplaced elbow from me in the throes of passion could quite literally break them in two. Zoe Ball would be disgusted; there’s no chance I’d have fit in to any of their jeans!