Let’s talk for a minute about shoes.
No wait, let’s talk about genetics for a minute.
I come from Tall People. We’re Nordic, so that’s what we do: be Tall. There are good things that come from being tall: reaching the cupboards, for instance. Or being naturally good at sports involving reach, often because tall people have longer arms. There are not-so-great things, too. For instance: the shrinking of the “playing field” when you’re dating, the uncomfortableness of living in a house built in the 1920s, etc.
Why does the dating field shrink, you say? Well, as a woman who stands five feet eight and three-quarters inches without her shoes on, it means that with even the most minimal shoe, I am five feet nine inches tall. Add a pair of sneakers and suddenly I’m five-nine-and-a-half. Stilettos? Approaching six feet. Most men like to not have to reach upwards for their date, I am quite sure, nor stare upwards at a woman who is glaring suspiciously down at them (which is another thing Tall Nordic People are good at: glaring suspiciously. See: January Jones as “Betty Draper” in Mad Men).
This was not a problem in the cold Northern Reaches where I grew up: most men are around six feet or taller, probably having evolved to height because in snow-drifts, you are only half as tall. However, I have found that in Virginia, there seems to be a height ceiling of around five-foot-ten or eleven, for men, maybe five seven for women. Disregarding any scientific inquiry into cold and height ratio on a population or general population heights for this area, I’m fairly sure I’m taller than average.
Which naturally means, in three-inch heels, I’m a friggin’ amazon. Okay, okay, not really. I just feel like it.
No, really. Dilemma!