Last night I had dinner with this guy whom I’m convinced is lying to me about his height. He says he’s six feet tall, but I think he’s adding in at least an inch of imagination.
I tell him this over dinner right after I ask about his medical maladies.
“We’re going to settle this,” I say.
He and I are trying to figure out how to measure him without going to a hardware store. An epiphany: Let’s go to a fast food restaurant and have him stand against those stickers posted near the door. You know, the ones with feet marked off that are designed to help catch criminals.
We go to two McDonald’s and a Roy Rogers without finding a sticker. Finally, we visit a Duane Reade. There has to be a ruler in the school supply section, at least.
I walk by some aisle full of shoelaces and teabags and safety pins and see some thread. One of those flat measuring tapes used in sewing! That’s what we need! I look, but can’t find one.
Then a Duane Reade employee - one of the few that I’ve ever seen walking around to assist customers - points out the last measuring tape on the aisle. It’s easy to miss at shin-level.
By this time, the guy whose height is in question has disappeared. I’m sure he’s stuffing paper towels in his shoes just in case I procure a measurement tool.
I find him and shake the packaged measuring tape in my hand. “Look what I found! Now come over here.”
He walks up to me, and I whisper. “We’re not buying this. Let’s find the adult diapers aisle.”
He looks around conspiratorially and starts to follow.
In a corner of the store stocked with chips and dip and no security cameras, I open the package. The tape only reaches five feet.
The guy steps on the tape. It ends at his chest. He grabs my hand and puts it where the inches stop. Then he picks up the tape again, starting to measure where my fingers are.
“I can’t tell where the top of your head is,” I say. It’s above mine, but I wouldn’t say it’s six feet in the air.
The guy puts his hand on top of his head and brings it to the tape measure.
“Ha! This says I’m 6′3″!”
I grab the measuring tape. “No way. Not at all. You did it wrong.”
We’re standing right in front of each other when a Duane Reade employee walks over. She sees us and thinks we’re having an intimate moment. “Oh, sorry!” she says.
We laugh and fold the measuring tape back up, placing it on top of a $4 bag of Tostitos. Then we leave the store.
“Would you consider lying down on the sidewalk and letting me measure you foot over foot?” I ask.
He gives me a look I’ve seen before.
I think it means “maybe.”
…And this is why I love you.
In the most non-threatening, co-blogger way possible.
Amanda, guys do this. They lie. And not only about their height but about how much they can bench press too. Trust me. Ask him how much he can bench press and even if he’s never stepped foot near a gym, he’ll say something like 970lbs.
Also, I hate something similar happen. I met a quasi-famous person via my old blog. As in, he found my blog and read a post about himself on it and then contacted me. We ended up becoming friends and since he lived in LA, at first we just spoke over the phone. When I watched a movie with him in it, I said, “I never realized how short you are!” He took great offense and SWORE he was 5′9. When we got to hang out in-person for the first time, I measured him. He was BARELY 5′7. However, his biographies and any interviews in which he is asked his height, to this day he still lies.
It’s a “man” thing.
That second paragraph should say, “I HAD” not I hate. Stupid fingers typing wrong.
Yep. It can’t help that I’m a bit of a snob about height, too.