Ask any single girl what she’s looking for in a guy and I’d bet you a cheeseburger and glass of pinot that “tall” is at the top of her list.
I get it. Tall guys are often big cuddly teddy bears that make you feel skinny even on your fattest day. They can reach that wine glass on the top shelf. And there’s nothing like throwing on a pair of their sweatpants and curling up with some peanut butter chocolate Haagen-Dazs and a Netflix marathon. So yes, “tall” was once at the top of my list too. Right next to “cheese lover” and “Vince Vaughn.”
Then I married Tom. (Hey, two out of three ain’t bad.)
At 6’3” and 100+ pounds heavier than me it’s like being married to a baby pterodactyl. And it took me nearly eight years to realize that along with those big comfy sweatpants also comes a big ass and crushing syndrome on every plane ride.
So ladies, before you turn your back on that 5’7” guy that’s been e-stalking you since that night you called him out for wearing heels in his Tinder photo, here’s a few things to consider about tall guys that you just can’t know until you marry one.
THEY MAKE YOUR ASS FAT
Tall guys are big guys and big guys eat. A lot. Mine eats every meal like it’s his last one before the asteroid hits Earth. What’s worse is that he refuses to acknowledge that the person who eats the most and the fastest sets the pace for the rest of the table. So we’ve spent the past eight years in a race to see who can down a rotisserie chicken and a chocolate cake in the fastest time. It took three acid reflux prescriptions, a personal trainer and an embarrassing bathroom incident at a roadside gas station but I’m proud to say I actually beat him once.
I’ve considered getting one of those head cones they give to dogs after ball surgery. If I can’t see him, I won’t eat like him.
THEY MAKE YOU RISK YOUR LIFE FOR TOILET PAPER
Tall guys love to store things on the highest shelf in the house. It’s fine when they’re home but god forbid they have to work late and your floor-level stash of TP runs out mid-pee. Good luck trying to reach a new roll with your pants around your knees as you struggle to keep your balance on a broken chair. Because in case you didn’t know…
THEY BREAK CHAIRS
Lots of people plop when they sit. But tall guys plop harder. It only makes sense—they’re falling from a higher distance. It’s kind of like dropping a Christmas ham off of a 10-story building. Something is bound to break on impact. In my case it was a beach chair, a nursing chair and a mattress that eventually developed a sinkhole responsible for a very scary near-death-by-suffocation experience.
THEY BANISH YOU TO THE MIDDLE SEAT
Tall guys need legroom and they don’t care who (or what) they have to step on to get it (even if it’s your spleen). This is a particularly painful problem on an airplane. I’ve spent every plane ride sandwiched between Tom and some other tall guy who wasn’t fast enough to book the aisle seat in time. (Probably because he was too busy making another batch of that salami/garlic cologne he’s always wearing).
Occasionally Tom will notice the blue lack-of-oxygen tint on my face and switch seats with me. But it never works out. A tall guy in the middle seat on an airplane is like Buddy the Elf sitting on Bob Newhart’s lap.
THEY HAVE BIG HEADS
Think less “ego” and more Herman Munster. Sure it looks great on them but next to a tall guy I always end up looking like this in photos:
So ladies, the next time you’re eyeing that 6’2” hottie across the bar just remember what big feet really mean—big shoes to trip on, big bags of laundry, big sushi bills, big bites of your slice of pizza, big sips of your wine to go with that slice of pizza, and of course, big dumps! But if you’re not convinced and you still want to marry tall, push for your own bathroom. Your little nose will thank you.
(This post originally ran on The Spew.)
About the author: Diana is a writer who started as a baker who didn’t bake, a dental assistant to the dental assistant and a shoe saleswoman who gagged around feet. Since then, she’s written all kinds of stuff for all kinds of companies in all kinds of offices. She’s even written newspaper ads for car dealers (some of her best work has probably lined your birdcage).
If you woke up one day covered in baby poop with one shaved leg, knee-deep in your husband’s dirty drawers and thought, “Wow, that must have been one hell of a roofie,” then her blog, The Spew, just might be for you.
You can find her on Facebook, Twitter and living in Jersey (stop judging).