Co**** Posted January 19 I didn’t set out to discover a preference. I was not standing in line at a coffee shop thinking, Today I will learn something profound about myself. It happened the way most realisations do, quietly, inconveniently, and with a paper cut of irony. It started at a bookshop, which already tells you something. I was browsing the philosophy section, pretending I was comparing translations of Marcus Aurelius when I was really just enjoying the smell of books and the illusion of wisdom. That’s when I heard a voice next to me say, “That translation’s fine, but it turns Stoicism into motivational posters.” I turned. The voice belonged to a woman who was, objectively speaking, short. Not “you must crouch to speak to her” short, but “top shelf books are a collaborative effort” short. She had glasses, a sharp smile, and was already reaching for a different book like she intended to prove her point in hardcover. We talked. Or rather, she talked and I tried to keep up. She had opinions, well-formed, lightly worn, and deployed with kindness but no hesitation. She explained why pop philosophy annoyed her, why footnotes mattered, and why people who say “I’m just not a reader” are usually afraid of being bored with their own thoughts. At some point, I realised two things at once. First, I was enjoying myself far more than expected. Second, I was craning my neck downward, nodding enthusiastically, and thinking, This is extremely my type, which was news to me. This should not have been shocking. In hindsight, the pattern was obvious. Every woman I’d ever found myself quietly impressed by, really impressed, shared two traits: she could outthink me on at least one subject, and she was shorter than average. I had just never connected the dots because I assumed preferences arrived fully labeled, like airport luggage. Instead, mine had been sneaking up on me in seminars, book clubs, and conversations where I laughed half a second too late because I was still processing the joke. There was something disarming about intelligence delivered from a lower altitude. No theatrics, no need to loom. Just precision. Wit without volume. The kind of confidence that doesn’t need to take up space because it already knows it belongs there. The bookstore woman eventually left, stepping away with a polite goodbye and a book I pretended I was also planning to read. I stood there for a minute longer than necessary, holding my Marcus Aurelius like a prop, conducting a brief internal audit. I wasn’t attracted despite her being short. I wasn’t even attracted because she was short. It was more that her height somehow sharpened everything else, her clarity, her timing, her ability to puncture nonsense with a sentence and a look. Like a well-written paragraph: compact, efficient, and devastating if you underestimate it. Since then, I’ve noticed it everywhere. The woman who explains complex ideas with the patience of a saint and the sarcasm of a sibling. The one who tilts her head up slightly when making a point, not for emphasis, but because that’s where your eyes are. The intellectual short women who don’t ask for attention and don’t need permission. I didn’t discover a preference that day so much as accept one. And it turns out knowing what you like isn’t limiting, it’s clarifying. Like finally realising why you always gravitate toward certain books on the shelf, even if you have to bend down a little to reach them.
Co**** Posted January 20 Author 19 minutes ago, GoodGirlBetterBrat said: This is beautifully written. Great read! Thank you
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