Tom, the contractor, set up his umpteenth date on Match.com. The woman he matched with was from the same affluent town, was the same height as he was, and was ready to meet him at Bridges, the hot spot downtown with the best happy hour. But when Ellen walked in, she had on three inch heels and towered over him.
“Whoa!” Tom said. “I thought you were five foot, eight.”
“I told you I need to wear heels for my back,” she said.
Even this writer knows that’s a crock of poo. A man invented high heels to stick out the female butt. Most women in their 50’s have packed them up and sent them to the poor people in third world countries by now.
But his fifty-something date wore them proudly. For her back.
Over drinks and appetizers, Ellen answered Tom’s question of what she liked to do best.
“I like Paris in the springtime and London in the fall,” she said.
Tom knew the woman was too rich for his blood.
When he tried to walk her to her car, she stopped him at the valet stand.
“Hi Ellen,” the valet said. “I parked your new Beemer in a special spot.”
Tom inferred two things from the exchange.
- She was a regular.
- She drove a nice car.
Tom had tools and machinery up the wazoo, but no new Beemer. He didn’t go to Europe twice a year and didn’t want to be with someone who expected that.
Ellen messaged Tom once, and he was polite but not flirty.
It wasn’t a match in his high-end town.
If Tom would’ve dated Ellen, he would have found out that she’d only been to Europe twice and had been trying to impress him. He would soon learn that the high heels were for first dates only because her back couldn’t take more than that. He had better cash flow than she did and would keep her in ballet flats for the duration of the relationship, two years, six months, and 29 days.