to ride this ride! And by this ride, I mean all this luscious chocolate-y goodness known as Melrose. If I had a dollar for every time a short-tort man approached me in the club, I’d be ballin’! Ok, maybe not balling, but y’all get the point.
A little background…in heels I stand at about 6 ft tall. Add my humongous curly hair into the equation and I’m a good 6′ 5″. And at 215 solid pounds, I’m no small woman. So why, OH WHY do men who are at breast level approach me on such a consistent basis? Is alcohol really liquid courage for all situations? I usually hear the term used for drunkards who are bound to get molly-wopped after a long night of drinking because they decided to pick a fight with a bum, that (unbeknownst to them) was a champion boxer in his former life.
But what is in a shot of tequila that makes a man think he has a chance with a woman who can see over the top of his head? What if something just so happens to go down? Am I gonna have to be like, “step back boo…I got this!“?
Ok, maybe I’m being a little too harsh. This has been a topic of conversation before, and every time I’ve been told I’m being picky or shallow. But honestly, it’s a preference. I want a man with stature, at least 5 feet 8 inches of it. Yes, I know that height is determined by genetics, and those that are deprived of it shouldn’t be discriminated against. So, I’ll say this…if you approach me in the club and don’t meet the 68 inch requirement, I’ll dance with you, I’ll drink with you, we’ll be friends…but the reality of it going anywhere else is slim to none. Keep sippin’ the spirits of confidence, but try it with the next one. I’m a big ride that doesn’t come with a step stool!
