Oh No He Di'int Make Me Feel Bad For Wearing Heels

My best friend's fiance is a full foot taller than her. Because the average height of my beaus have clocked in around 5'8, she and another taller friend often tease me for ''dating short guys.'' At 5'4, I've never really given ''tall men'' or ''short men'' a second thought. That is, until a guy I'm seeing comments on my heels.

When you, dude of average height, make yourself involved with my footwear and decide to make it a negative issue about your height, it's on! Actually, it's off because I'm totally turned off by your height insecurity.

I've enjoyed wearing heels since the tender age of seven, when I used to steal them from my mom's closet and tap dance on our hardwood floor. She used to yell at me for doing that, but this is different! I don't need a passive aggressive dude grunting about my heels when we're out together. What's your deal?!

After a decade+ of being forced to see up people's nostrils, I'm on top of the world with an extra three inches under my feet. It's easier to scope out who has a receding hairline now, and I really like the important, clicky sound my tootsies make when I excuse myself from the table.

When I've primped for your friend's wedding /holiday party /a night on the town and I greet you in a smashing little black dress, your gaze should be fixed on my boomin' body, not my pumps. When you blubber, "Oh, you're wearing heels tonight?" you understand why I want to take them off my feet and swiftly thrust them towards a vulnerable place on your body, right?

What really gets me is that it's not some Alice in Wonderland-esque occurrence. I didn't suddenly grow 4 inches. And, it's not a permanent transformation. We're going to a dressy event and if you can't handle me being the same height as you for three hours, then I think you need more self-esteem or a shorter girlfriend.

Before you made this a stressful situation, in my eyes, we were both winners. How? This is in your favor, buddy: I'm easier to kiss when I'm taller! Technically, my boobs are closer to your face and I'm thrilled I get to pretend I'm 5'7 for two hours. Can't we call this a victory together?

So, yes, my track record states I've dated men of ''below average height.'' It also indicates that I've dated a ton of creeps, so go ahead and ask me again if I'm wearing heels, and make yourself two for two.

[Note from Anna: I had to toss in my two cents here. As a 6'1 woman who likes to date much shorter guys, I never wear heels.  It's not because I'm concerned for their feelings either. In fact, I love how they have to stand on a step to kiss me. It's one of my favorite things about life!

However, I physically cannot wear high heels. I tumble over like a newborn giraffe. I have a theory: I have really small toes and I don't think that they are capable of working in a high heel situation. They're really small, like the size of homemade gnocchi. My small toes make high heel walking impossible. (Where's my Facebook group?) All you girls that can rock pumps, go on with your bad self. I'll be in the corner standing steadily in my flats.]

Oh No He Di'int Make Me Feel Bad For Wearing Heels

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Well Played: You're Really Into Yoga

When dudes tell me they're way into yoga, I'm usually torn between batting my lashes and rolling my eyes. Why? Because men who need to carry a mat around ''to relax'' or get all pretzel-y in bed usually fall into the following sub-categories (click to enlarge):

But you, yoga guy, are a rare exception. Despite your crunchy interests, you appear to have high standards for both your health and mental well-being. After dating around Philly in a dirty dive bar, late-night Wawa hoagie bachelor wasteland, your existence makes me want to run up and down Broad Street and give high-fives to strangers.

How can I not like a boy that wakes up early just to stretch? You're clean, you eat well, you probably help old ladies cross the street, wear clean socks and like to hold hands; the same hands I am certain you will always wash after going to the bathroom.

You also get bonus points because, unlike the rest of your peers, you know that Fritos and PBR aren't their own food group. Well played, Yoga Guy. You're also in good shape and spare me the Darth Vader-y sound effects when running up my stairwell. What a dreamboat!

Well Played: You're Really Into Yoga

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Quick Rant: Your Extreme Pocket Dialing Habit

Way to go, guy. You've given a new meaning to the term "mobile communication" with your magical ability to pocket dial me at any and all times of the day. I'll be at my desk or sitting on my bed, then I'll think of you and ring ring, just like magic, it's you! But, it's not actually you on the other end of the line. "Hello? Hello? HELLO?," I shout like a crazy woman on a street.

I check the phone again to see if I somehow imagined my phone ringing, but it's definitely you calling me--my caller ID told me that--but it's choppy and static and you're talking to someone else or, more strangely, grumbling about traffic and listening to Iron Maiden completely oblivious that I'm on the other end of the line. "Oh man," I realize, "I've just been pocket dialed. Again."

This has become a regular thing with you. Do you remember that time you called me at 4:13am and I called you back and no one answered? Then, remember how I panicked because I thought there was an emergency? And remember how it turned out that it was just your cat being a creep-a-leep and pawing your BlackBerry while you were asleep? It's like your phone really likes dialing my number.

It's a good thing I like you so much because it's not normal to receive mystery voicemails with you breathing into your phone like Darth Vader or messages that could double for a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah b-side song played underwater. Your pocket dial is like I just got an oral report about what it's like to be a dime in your pocket. Lock your keypad, darlin'. It's best for all involved.

Quick Rant: Your Extreme Pocket Dialing Habit

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Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: You Talk in Your Sleep

I bolt upright in the middle of the night.You said something to me and now I'm half-awake. I hear you say something again. You're mumbling. Please tell me that this is not your way of trying to put the moves on me. What the hell, dude? I'm awake now, so enunciate for the love of God! Oh wait, you're talking but you aren't talking to me; you're just chattering away in your sleep. Awesome.

How am I just realizing now that you're a sleeptalker? I channel Yosemite Sam--or even Naomi Campbell--toward anything that wakes me before the sun is up. As a freelancer, I've worked way too hard to achieve normal REM cycles and I will defend those 7 hours of sleep like my they're my children and they're in danger of being eaten by zombies.

Surprisingly though, hearing you string together words in the middle of the night like you're slurping alphabet soup on acid is actually pretty cute. Aw, look at you happily babbling about things that make no sense! You've got bedhead. Who cares if you woke me up at 4:26am; Look how cute you are!

Hearing you laugh in your slumber is downright endearing. As long as you aren't chattering about a) weaponry b) another woman c) another dude, your snooze talk is A-OK with me.

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: You Talk in Your Sleep

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Tip Our Hats: Guys Who Won A Science Fair In Their Youth

I can barely hold my molecules together because this is so adorable. As a former science kit kid who has a self-teach biology book as an adult, there is nothing sweeter than knowing you totally took all the marbles at a school science fair. When I was nine years old, Bill Nye was my main squeeze. I watched any and all educational programming on PBS before dinner when I was a kid and, chances are, if you did too then we would be a match made in nerd heaven.

So what was it you constructed that wowed your teachers? Did you go all out and make something grow? Explode? Implode? Were you experimental or did you go by the book? Was it a homemade battery? A paper mache dinosaur? Some mold from your locker in a petri dish? An eco-system?

Or were you the more refined, spectacle-and-sweater-wearing, stoic school goer; a regular little Egon who let everyone know that dioramas were so 1973 and that a baking soda and vinegar volcano was a cop out? Was your project as cool as a 3D Styrofoam model of a brain that was made of packing peanuts?*

This kind of guy totally floats our potato-batteried boat. We love a smart man and not just because they usually own a few pairs of argyle socks. And we don't just dig any ol' dude who took a few honors classes in high school. We dig curious, intelligent men who are genuinely interested in what the universe is made of and how it all fits together. So, boys who won a science fair back in the day, we tip our hats to you. I can promise you there's gonna be some chemistry between us. Hubba hubba.


*FYI, I may have made that in 4th grade.

Tip Our Hats: Guys Who Won A Science Fair In Their Youth

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Quick Rant: Creepy Winkers

A knowing wink can be cute, when it's from the right guy. Today a strange bearded man on a motorcycle thought he was being super suave and winked at me. I easily made the worst face on the planet at him. NOT COOL. It's the same face I make when I smell the women's restroom at Macy's on Black Friday. Sorry for that mental image, but I couldn't help it! A wink from a stranger almost always comes off as creepy. Not a new skool kind of creepy--like he's going to lurk on your blog and riddle your page with inane comments--but an old timey kind of creepy, like the last time that wink worked was when a cup of coffee cost a nickel.

Men of Philadelphia: if you aren't somehow comparable in looks to the Fonz, please do us a favor and keep both eyes open or closed simultaneously. When you wink at me, I don't feel a flutter; I reach for my mace.

Quick Rant: Creepy Winkers

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Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: You Live In Delaware

Normally I dislike Delaware the same way I dislike guys who wear dad jeans: unconditionally. It might be because every trip I've ever taken to our nation's first state has been an absolute disaster. *Cough--remember that time I got lost in Newark at midnight by myself?--*cough. It also could have something to do with the fact that it seems like the entire state is always under construction.

As a general rule, I often steer clear of boys who don't live or work in the city. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I ditched my car for a SEPTA pass some time ago, or maybe because I found that out-of-city dating cramped my style. But you, Mr. Delawarean, you are makin' this happen. I met a nice boy finishing his master's degree at UDel, and I'm suddenly feeling less and less disdain for our nation's second smallest state.

My apologies, Delaware: you may have the longest red lights on the planet and are only the size of South Jersey, but you've somehow managed to eliminate sales tax at the Apple store and currently house, educate and employ the boy I like. So, let's take the R2 and hang the eff out.

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: You Live In Delaware

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Movie Mayhem: Rings And Necklaces

Movie dates can be a sweet intro into dating when you are young, but what if the whole date is a surprise?

I thought nothing of it when my friend John asked me to the movies. With only a driver's permit in my purse, my mom dropped me off at the movie theater, where I unknowingly waltzed into my very first date. I saw my friend John sitting at a table near the snack counter, alone. He wore a pea coat and nice shoes. He said that he already bought tickets and that no other friends were joining us for the movie. Wait, what?

In well-concealed confusion, I went to buy some snacks and realized--duh!--John had invited me out on a date. As a junior in high school, I felt genuine panic, mostly because I didn't know what to do on a date! Stranded at The Regal with a large popcorn tub in my hands, I considered the situation.

When I got back to our seats, he handed me a small gift box: a souvenir from his family vacation. Wrapped in Disney paper, I was expecting a key chain or some other reasonably priced souvenir. Instead, cradled in tissue paper, I found a silver necklace with a heart and a Tinkerbell charm dangling from it.

This shouldn't have been complicated, but being a teenage Bridget Jones, it naturally was. Aside from feeling awkward by receiving a gift on a date I didn't realize I was going on, I happened to have one of the worst topical allergies to metal my doctor has ever seen. I practically break out with terrible eczema just looking at jewelry. Despite the obvious consequences, I slipped the necklace on and said thank you.

My teenage Romeo wanted to hold my hand for the entire movie. And in case you live under a rock and didn't know, The Lord of the Rings movie is three hours long. Frodo & co. were boring me so much that I couldn't move and my hand fell asleep in his. Instead of fluttery emotion, all I was feeling were pins and needles. The hand holding also foiled my plan to remove Tinkerbell from my increasingly itchy neck.

I finally excused myself, shaking my numb hand the whole way. I bolted to the bathroom, leaned into the mirror and discovered a bright red rash developing around my neck. I put the necklace in my pocket, then I called my mom to pick me up as I wrapped my scarf around me to conceal the growing rash. When the movie was over, I thanked John, told him I'd talk to him soon and dashed for my mother's car. We did talk later that evening, but our teenage romance wasn't going to develop past playing SNES on the weekends. We never ever spoke of our super awkward movie date again.

Movie Mayhem: Rings And Necklaces

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Beer Week Blitz: Cheerleader Beer - Half the Calories, Twice As Hard To Swallow

About a month after I left my ex, I decided to go dancing with some friends and a new gentleman caller. He had a full-time job, a car, manners and heck, he could even dance and not look like a complete tool. So, what made him go from beer hottie to beer nottie? Aside from issuing an unusual level of unwanted physical contact (hint: my best friend now refers to him as The Leg Toucher), the buzzkill came straight from the fridge in the form of 12 fluid ounces.

We were gettin' our dance on and I was ready to make my way over to the bar for something cold. The Leg Toucher, seeing me paw through my purse, intercepted, "I've got it. What do you want?"

Since the music was loud and hard to yell over, I mouthed, "Whatever you get!" and waved him to the bar. With a decent, reasonably-priced beer list 30 feet to my right, I really was not expecting a worse case scenario. This dude crashed the date--and deflated any potential future boners for him--via two bottles: two Miller High Life Lights for both of us. Homeboy seriously drank beers that are usually seen in the manicured hands of cheerleaders.

It never occurred to me that a Miller High Life could even have a lighter counterpart, as I thought it was a beer reserved for suburban barbecue parties at your uncle's house. High Life Light was never in my vocabulary before that evening and, despite my better judgment, I now know that it tastes exactly like seltzer water.

Oh poor Leg Toucher, you never had a chance. I wouldn't have cared that much if you had just said you weren't really into beer, but you failed to even humor me. Your surprising and awkward brew choice, in the newly proclaimed best beer city in America, was not sexy at all. I promptly texted my best friend that my date had managed to water down both the champagne of beers and my interest. Nice work!

Beer Week Blitz: Cheerleader Beer - Half the Calories, Twice As Hard To Swallow

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