He saw a height gap. But he couldn’t see the wage gap.
A lighthearted analysis of height differences takes a complicated, more sinister turn.
“Do you think height matters when it comes to attractiveness in men?” M asks, meeting my eyes over a bowl of hot ramen.
I met M on Hinge, and whilst things never stuck from a romantic perspective, we became fast friends. We’d goof off after work in ramen bars, commiserate about our long hours, and hop between late night dumpling joints. I was glad things turned out the way they did. I started to cherish M’s companionship more than any date.
“Personally, I don’t think it matters”, I respond. Which is true. I would happily date a man shorter than me, I explain- and I think the ascribed hotness that comes with being over 6 foot is frankly, something we could do without. Maybe it’s because I grew up with a father who was shorter than my mother, so it always felt trivial. The more I think about it, the weirder it feels to fixate on such a specific trait, like wanting your second toe to be the same length as your first. But unlike toes, height just happens to be one of the things that culture and society decided matters more.
M seems pleased with my response. Shorter men, we agree, tend to have it harder than shorter women when it comes to dating. What about taller women? I pose that they would have it harder. The expectation that a man is taller than the woman in a (heterosexual) relationship, means for women who are taller, there’s a smaller pool of candidates, right?
M disagrees. “Taller men have it harder than taller women”.
No way. We just talked this through, didn’t we? Society’s expectation that a man should be taller in a relationship, plus the fact that height is considered more attractive in men, surely means that being a taller man is a greater advantage than being a taller woman, right?
“I don’t agree”, M responds. “I think taller men still have it harder than taller women. I mean, don’t women want to be tall too? That’s why they wear heels, to be taller.”
I’m speechless. It feels like I’m sitting with a stranger. Is this the same person I got to know? With once sentence, I’m slapped across the face with a reminder that we are living two very different, gendered, experiences.
After battling back and forth (of course women don’t only wear heels to be taller), I change topics, keen to move on. I tell him I’m curious about another standard of male attractiveness- the idea that being “bulkier”, or more muscular, is something desirable, and being slim is undesirable- I want his perspective. I can’t imagine a life without wondering if I’d be happier if I was slimmer, if my shoulders were less broad, if I could fit into jeans a size down.
He thinks for a few seconds. “I once read an anecdote from a clinical psychologist”, he says, “saying that in his experience, patients who suffered from muscular dysmorphia took longer to recover than patients with anorexia.”
The pointedness of his comment, and the certainty of it, catches me off guard. What? I was only asking about standards of attractiveness. I wasn’t expecting him to take two eating disorders and pit them against each other like that; with the insinuation that the pressure to be muscular is more damaging than the pressure to be thin. Why did he feel the need to, right after our conversation about heights too?
I feel a deep unease bloom in my stomach. This makes me uncomfortable, and I know why.
I have sat and listened while a man has told me why men have it harder than women when it comes to standards for physical attractiveness, and body image. These same men have told me why women shouldn’t be scared walking home at night because more men than women are involved in public attacks, why the wage gap doesn’t actually exist because women choose jobs in lower paying industries. I have tried to fight, to plead, to reason. Once, a man like this was someone I was in a casual relationship with. I ignored the alarm bells because this was someone I knew and cared for. I thought our trust in each other would outweigh our abstract, ideological arguments. A few months later, after he choked and penetrated me without my consent, I ended our relationship and friendship. I felt like an idiot for trusting someone without a basic respect for women, with my own body. And I learnt that there are some values I don’t compromise on.
I thought our trust in each other would outweigh our abstract, ideological arguments.
Now I sit in front of M, my ramen cooling in front of me, and feel sick. A few years ago, I would have given the benefit of the doubt, tried to understand his perspective and contend things in earnest. But now, I feel anger, dread, frustration. The emotions sizzle in my stomach like hot coals. I can recognize that this is fueled by my past experiences, and I am reacting the same way a shark bitten surfer does to the deep, dark ocean.
So I explain my concerns to him, and tell him I’m not comfortable with the anecdote he brought up, when we weren’t trying to compare. He tells me he wasn’t necessarily saying anything about gender.
“That was just the first thing I knew about the topic. I’m not willing to say anything I don’t know as fact.” He continues, saying it’s the only fact he knows related to body image, and it was the first thing that came to mind.
“I guess I can understand that”, I say. I recognize it might have just been a comparison between two illnesses, as opposed to two genders. But it’s impossible to completely remove the issues of body image, beauty standards, and the very real gendered statistics from conversations around these illnesses. You can’t compare these things and take gender out of the equation.
And now, I need to know what he else he thinks. I can’t really proceed with our friendship without knowing. Aware of how pointed, how crazy I seem, I drive our conversation down its dark, inevitable path.
“I’m sorry”, I say. “But this still doesn’t quite feel right to me. I’ve been friends with people who share these types of opinions before, and they always seem to share certain, similar opinions on other issues. So, I know this might sound unrelated, but let me ask you. The wage gap. What do you think of it? Do you think it exists?”
He squirms, considers for a moment.
“Look”, he says. There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. “I don’t think I’d be able to say anything on the topic unless I’d done my proper research. In my experience, though, where I work, and when I’ve spoken to the other female graduates in the same space as me, there doesn’t seem to be any difference in pay.”
“Okay”, I say. “But haven’t you ever thought about why governments, databases and publications, publish research and statistics on this? Have you ever thought about why they all talk about this, why it’s a topic across countries and companies and cultures? Haven’t you ever come across a study on this? Because they’re everywhere.”
“I probably have come across some”, he admits. “But I’d only really want to make up my mind after I’d done my own research. I’m not saying a gender wage gap doesn’t exist. It might, in some industries. But frankly, I don’t care enough about it to find out. My personal approach to life is that I only want to bring in things that add to my happiness, and I personally don’t think this would bring me any happiness. So, why should I care about it?”
I want to scream. Does he understand the short-sightedness of what he’s saying?
It’s so funny- whenever the men in my life reveal opinions like this, it always takes me a little by surprise. Somehow, I think that our similar humors, interests, and personalities, will extend naturally to our values. But I keep being proven wrong.
“What do you think your friends would think about this?” I say.
“They would probably go with the socially conventional answer”, he says. “And they’re probably biased. Which is exactly why I wouldn’t listen to them, and I’d rather do my own research. Just like I wouldn’t listen to your beliefs, because you’re biased.”
My mind is swimming. A server stops at our table and asks if we’re finished with our food, gesturing to my bowl, which has a good portion of ramen sitting untouched. I exert a good deal of effort to smile politely, and nod. The worst part is, I don’t even feel like I can be angry at M. Because in the end, he’s not a bad person for wanting to do his own research, and not wanting to believe blindly. But it’s the fact that he doesn’t think it matters, because it doesn’t apply to him. That he has female friends, coworkers, might one day have a female partner or child, and still feels that these issues aren’t things that are worth his while.
M notices my discomfort. “Can we change topics please”, he says, “and talk about something more fun?”
Can we change topics? I shrug. We could. But I think it might be too late to go back. The rest of the night is awkward, with stilted conversation and forced laughs.
When we part ways, I realize this is probably one of the last times I’m going to see M. It’s funny how he picked out height as this barrier of attractiveness to women. I can’t speak for everyone, but I think most women would prefer men who respect their right to have a say, to earn what they deserve, and to be considered equally capable. I’m going to miss M a lot. But I also know that I need men around me who are on my side, and recognize how to see me as an equal, whether they tower above me or have to look up to meet my gaze.
