It’s a Tall World (After All)

I was 30 years old before I truly realized I was short. Not in the eyes of God, nor in my own eyes—but, all the same, irredeemably “short.” There’s just no compensating for it. In the distant past, there was even some brief mutual flirting between myself and a girl who was something like 5'10", for we rapidly overcame our qualms in that initial realization that we had the same problem of being marginalized, even if coming at it from different directions. I’m certain this only prolonged the illusion and delayed the inevitable.

A blind mountain climber (with a seeing wife, incidentally), Erik Weihenmayer, explains the corner into which those of unusual circumstances are often painted:

People's perceptions of our limitations are more damaging than those limitations themselves, and it was the hardest lesson I ever had to swallow. . . .

The AFB asked me to do some TV interviews. One was a cheesy daytime talk show, on which I was showcased among a group of blind people deemed "amazing and inspirational." . . . I was featured first, and the host opened with, "A blind mountain climber. Isn't that incredible? Even I, who can see just fine, wouldn't think of climbing a mountain." This wasn't the first time I had heard the "Even I" statement. It was always meant as a compliment, but it never failed to annoy me. There might be a dozen other factors that prevented the host from excelling in the sport of mountain climbing. She might be fifty pounds overweight, wheezing with every breath, and might never have even set foot on a mountain, but in her mind, success or failure was automatically attributed to one factor: sight or no sight. . . .

People sensationalize the lives of blind people when, often, all they did was exhibit a semblance of normalcy. . . . Each of us on the panel was being honored for our heroic tales, but the recognition spoke more loudly of low expectations than of accomplishment. . . .

I told them about my failure to get a dishwasher job in college. "Some guy told me I needed to realize my limitations. I think too many people sit around realizing their limitations when, maybe, they should spend more time realizing their potential." (Touch the Top of the World: a Blind Man's Journey to Climb Farther than the Eye Can See [New York, New York: Dutton, 2001], 128, 166-167, 181)

Society won’t budge. It won’t even temporarily step aside. This was driven home as I happened across a book in the library this month, Normal at Any Cost: Tall Girls, Short Boys, and the Medical Industry’s Quest to Manipulate Height. The inescapable reality? “In 1936, the writer Hugh Morris wrote, in The Art of Kissing, that the ‘man must be . . . taller than the woman . . . for he must give the impression of being his woman’s superior (mentally and physically)’” (5). Crowned by the premise of standing “superior” to a woman, how has this managed to dupe and fossilize our culture? Conceiving of any direct connection between height and mental capacity is staggering. As for (wo)man’s bowing before Satan’s evolutionary construct in following a quest for physical superiority, never mind that I might be braver than 75% of men and at least as difficult to kill as the top quarter. Never mind any number of factors; a pointless subconscious insistence on height for protective assurance has become an open insistence.

I’m not alone in this. Many good men—some of whom I would have thought topped the most eligible lists in almost any category—have described rejection to me on grounds little more explicable than an inch or two of height difference. How devastating, and peevish, can such an opt-out be to one’s possibilities? I return to Normal at Any Cost, page 8, for a female perspective:

By the time Shirley had finished growing, at 6'1", she was taller than 91 percent of the male population: a potential social tragedy in a culture that insisted . . . that a husband must be taller than his wife. Theoretically, that left Shirley with, at most, a pool of 9 percent of young men her age as possible mates. If she’d stopped growing at 5'9", about half the male population would have been taller.

It’s not, strictly speaking, height difference leading to society’s angst, but whether the man will be taller. It’s so bad that Hollywood has unapologetically reinforced this ideal for years. All manner of sin can be forgiven in first impressions (and on down the line), but not male dwarfism. The girl can even be “ludicrously” shorter, so long as she’s the one who’s shorter. Many a time, I’ve heard a girl say to the guy she’s with, when looking at a picture of them together, “Wow. I had no idea you were so much taller.” (I’ve contemplated testing that as deadpan humor some time.) Somehow that doesn’t happen in reverse. Such a realization also has no negative impact on their ongoing relationship, because it fits the model.

One cannot hope to tamper with the triune characteristics—having no bearing whatsoever on character—which I’ve heard many women recite as desirable: “tall, dark, and handsome.” Normal at Any Cost also points out, “Nothing dented the preference among females for a taller mate. They’d give up on the dark and handsome long before they’d compromise on the tall. . . . One social psychologist called it ‘the cardinal principle of date selection’” (111). That kind of puts me at the bottom of the totem pole. ;-)

One of the impressive few who saw through this veneer once told me, “Please don't judge me on my 5' 4" status alone. I am barely that....and I am anything but typical.” There’s a definite, special charm to any girl rare enough to be interested, yet at the same time I find something subtly confining about such rarity in the first place. I long for selection, not hopeless compulsion by elimination. I’m open enough to possibilities and the value of every soul that my feeling forced is almost evidence enough in itself for me to withdraw. Have I passed up opportunities? Perhaps.... However, given that I settled once before (with divorce being the inevitable and tragic consequence), I no longer see the point in attempts where I haven’t felt more than faintly interested. Am I truly a beggar? Regarding my failure at times to reciprocate, I’m just as worried about a girl’s happiness as my own, to say nothing of a sincere sense of mission which must be served by a merger. I’ve explained myself so often before that it feels cliche to me—and why should I have to explain myself?

Valentine's Day has significance for me, but not for any of the right reasons. In 2001, I was restraining myself from going, as profusely invited, to a girl’s party, though we’d spent a great deal of time together. I’d caught on to what a good friend depicted as her treating me like a “eunuch” in her royal court. (Hence my nearly unreasonable insistence, after years of having enough, that I can only go so long around a single woman whom I genuinely find attractive, allowing her to have all the benefits of my friendship without any of the risks of going out.) Ere long, when she interrogated me over my reticence and obtained honest expressions of how negatively she made me feel, it led to some real nastiness. In 2007, I spent this evening in company with my ex-wife, renewed only long enough for me to be reluctantly goaded—not that I’d been happy in the marriage—to sign divorce papers, though they described a conflict which had never occurred and irreconcilability which was entirely by her choice. Her eyes lit up as I unexpectedly handed her half of my funds from a retirement account she didn’t even know existed and no court order would ever have made me turn over. In the end, it seemed she’d wanted me for money, soothing words, and shelter. She, too, had called out behind her, “Nobody wants you. Nobody will ever want you.”

There’s been a composite effect in my dating life that’s left me numb and detached. I’ve heard it said that when someone beats their head against a wall long enough, the killing blow is actually the weakest. Similarly, a girl in September last year is quite possibly the last one I’ll ever “try” with. She looked upon me without seeing my soul, and dismissed me out of hand when she tired of me. I now see women, despite all magnificence of being and necessity to being, somewhat like they see me: as a dating nonentity. It seems so much better this way, where things remain (however superficially) pleasant, diplomatic, friendly (to the extent, at times, that someone is your friend who can appreciate all the same supposed potential qualities, outside the untouchable triune, as those they apply to others of the opposite sex, and yet not see you as date-worthy). I commit no crime of showing an interest, and no more women are upset with me. Frankly, neither am I upset with any of them. This way, nobody gets too close and nobody gets hurt. The room I’ve reserved for legitimate affection has no place for such wasted emotions (or time and energy).

I conclude by speaking broadly of every girl who’s ever disappointed me in the dating realm. (Appreciating the sweetness of many, but not feeling it’s a match, is an entirely different matter.) If it seems unfair to make one’s assessment dependent upon acceptance or rejection as a date, just know that sooner or later multitudes of other men and women violate such a boundary . . . with varying success at impunity. Every woman from whom I’ve relented has retained a playing field open to anyone taller, I . . . to anyone shorter. Which encompasses more opportunity? I’m not sure whom they think I should be dating, but that’s never any concern of theirs. How many shorter women have I even known in my lifetime?

I’m no respecter of persons over height. I have nothing to say either for or against it. I simply haven’t experienced the needful convergence of personally suitable spirituality, personality, and intellect among the very few eligible short women, just as I haven’t with 99.95% of the average-statured female population. The samples are too small in both cases, but I assure you the pool of religiosity in which I’m quirky enough is exponentially larger in the tall camp. Height is truly irrelevant to those factors under consideration, in any event. Only the other day, I found myself sharing a small secret with someone of one thing I carefully observe in the opposite sex, which just so happens to have no coincidence with height or appearance.

Last week, I sat in the foyer of my family ward, reflecting upon how little I belonged there or in the singles ward from which I had graduated. Feeling in limbo, I looked up at the “lost and found” table, with a sudden urge to climb atop it and see if anyone would claim me. I’m often severely misunderstood, even among friends. What hope is there that I could let loose, full throttle, in voicing my thoughts, feelings, and concerns on religion, politics, and society—and not be rejected? With regard to dating, I say as I often have: I fear no rejection, but I reject the notion that I need any longer experience it. I have the faith to move mountains, but God Himself stops moving mountains in cases where agency must come to fruition.

I can no longer imagine any morning where I’d wake up thinking, “This might be the day I meet someone to share my life with.” The promises are sure, though. There’s always eternity, the great rectifier. If that seems dark, I apologize, rather than scoffing at the shortsightedness which condemns stoicism acknowledging a better future. So many have had it so much worse over so much longer time, and proven themselves so much better. I’ll press on to the end and ask no odds of any man or woman.