Let’s get something exactly 169.5 cm tall and slightly hunched out of the way: not being attracted to shorter men does not make me superficial. It just makes me… biologically consistent, ergonomically aligned, and unwilling to date someone whose forehead makes eye contact with my clavicle.
Because when a 182 cm woman says, “I prefer men taller than me,” society hears: “Burn her at the stake for crimes against equality!” But when a man says he only dates women with Olympic-approved hip-to-waist ratios, the world hands him a podcast mic and a creatine sponsorship.
Let’s examine the hard data:
- A 2023 University of Nowhere study found that women dating men under 175 cm experience a 68% increase in carrying their own groceries.
- Another peer-reviewed paper in the Journal of Relationship Ergonomics concluded that couples with a height gap under 5 cm argue 42% more about “who wears the platform shoes tonight.”
- And finally, Helsinki researchers discovered that women over 180 cm have a 99% chance of being called “shallow” if they dare to prefer men over 170 cm. (Sample size: me.)
The prosecution says:
“You’re shallow.” Yes, Karen, and so is your oat milk latte, and it still costs €6.
“You’re a heightist.” Correct, but so is the amusement park industry. Half the rides require 140 cm just to enter.
“You’re missing out on great men under 175 cm.” I’m also missing out on crocheting, reptile ownership, and men whose favorite film is The Wolf of Wall Street. I’ll live.
Here’s the unshakable truth: attraction is not a UN resolution. You don’t enter your subconscious and vote, “Resolved: effective immediately, 169 cm shall now be hot.” No. Attraction is prehistoric software. My ancestors didn’t dodge saber-toothed tigers so I could pretend a man shorter than my inseam can protect me from a wild boar.
Yes, short men deserve love. They deserve it in kilograms, liters, hectares, and government subsidies. But not from me. Someone else can fund that public-private partnership.
So am I superficial? Possibly. But so is everyone who won’t date smokers, Nickelback fans, or people who clap when the plane lands. At least my so-called superficiality comes with a built-in measuring tape.
Fine. Call me the villain. But I’ll be a 182 cm villain in 7 cm boots – a skyscraper in certain postal codes, a walking act of intimidation, and undeniably unapologetic.
Erika Matic is 182 cm barefoot, 189 cm in her sharpest boots, and infinitely heavier when burdened with the fragile egos of men under 180 cm. She writes about politics, lust, structural integrity, and why gravity itself seems personally offended by her existence.
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