Not so tall order for tacos

Last weekend I was warmly greeted by a younger friend who works at a museum that I was visiting for a new exhibit reception. Emma remarked how much she loved the boots she saw in a recent photo that I posted on Facebook and how she wished she had legs to wear such footwear. The skin-tight Vera Wang thigh-highs are the pinnacle of my boot purchases in terms of both price and accentuating my gams.

I instantly thought to return the kind words and remark how envious I am of her tiny waist. Instead, I smiled broadly and told her that the gift of a woman maturing is the realization to embrace her gifts versus bemoaning what she doesn’t have. Since my conversation with Emma, I have thought of my second fastest date.*

*ref: 'Fastest Date the in South', Aug. 4, 2011

Bruce and I had a few weeks of email conversation on Match.com. He was a horologist who had lived in the Northeast, Colorado and now Texas. He seemed witty and thoughtful, so when he asked to meet for a bite, I had no reservations.

Velvet Taco is great for small bites and breezy conversation. I knew that we would both arrive in our respective two-seater convertibles on this nice fall day. We both listed 5’9” as our height, and I was wearing kitten heels. I believed that eye contact would be made.

I arrived first and stood at the back of the restaurant waiting for Bruce before joining the queue. His neutral expression turned grim as soon as he entered and saw me. Wearing a cute dress and a friendly smile, I decided it would only take a few warm words before the anxiety of our first meeting would melt away. No. His brow furrowed as he asked me to remind him how tall I was. The top of his head came to my shoulder. When I reconfirmed my height, he replied, “I guess that I should change mine to 5’8”.” I couldn't help but think, “No, you should change it to what is the correct measure.” 

As we approached to order, he squarely chose a different cashier than me. I ordered my favorite two tacos and water. When my cashier asked if this was here or to go, I softly whispered, “To go.”

Bruce and I headed to a small table outside as we waited for our names to be called. Conversation was strained, and I was beginning to feel frustrated by the prejudice I felt for something I had no control: my height.

When my name was called, I politely told Bruce that I could tell that he was disappointed when he arrived and that I was uncomfortable. I was going to take my dinner home and wished him the best.

Once I collected my thoughts, I wrote to him on Match.com to apologize for the manner in which I left, and that it was only because I felt he was not enjoying himself. I never wish to waste anyone’s time. He asked me to meet him again. I politely declined, and his annoyed attitude reappeared in subsequent messages.

I am not proud of my actions. I have since recounted that date many times to determine how I could have handled better. Nevertheless, Bruce seemed to be fixated on his perceptions versus reality. I just didn’t want it to happen on my watch.