There are four things people lie about the most in their dating profile: age, height, weight, and marital status.
Let’s start with the basics. I’m 31 years old. Sometimes I still think I’m 29. I know an unfortunate soul who tells stories like she’s still in high school, even though she graduated six years ago. When I worked in a bar, there was a whole group of adults dressed in leather pants and headbands every weekend, forever destined to continue living out the 80s.
Here’s how age works: if you compare the number of years I’ve been on Earth to someone who, say, has been here for 70 years, of course I’ll look like a hatchling next to this dinosaur. If you consider the fact that I moved out at 18, accrued three degrees and 100k in student debt, had a kid, been fake divorced twice, endured a midlife crisis on the verge of 30, walked away from a stable, promising career, and discovered that feminism for me was, in fact, a phase I grew out of, then I’m relatively old, if not experienced.
Also: I only have one payment left before my car is paid off. This makes me an adult.
If you knew I read dystopian young adult fiction until my mid-twenties, I might look younger than I am. Age, truly, is just a number counting the number of years you’ve been alive.
I’m 5′ 9″…on my tip toes…in heels…on stilts. Pretty much I have to climb on the counters to reach anything in the kitchen. I’m about 5′ 7′ in heels, if I wear them, so on a good day, I’m almost always five feet and three inches tall. I’ve never dated anyone shorter than me. This would probably be hard to do. One time I thought I might like this guy still if he was a midget, but no.
My license at one point said I weighed seven more pounds than I really did at the time. This is something we will probably never talk about. I now weigh fourteen pounds more than my license said, and I am inexplicably three inches wider without looking any thinner. Pictures really are better for this portion of the profile. There is a fat version of me and a skinny version of me. I’m currently in the skinny version, but if I have another life crisis, this could change at any moment.
I’m like a muscular teddy bear. What I mean is what you think are muscles is really extra fluff and stuff. I used to be a gym rat or gym shark, whichever, but not anymore. Muscles freak me out.
Single, never married. This is what I file on my taxes every year. I used to be married to this thing called work, but now I mostly read and write; occasionally, I show up to a night job (I’m a server, not a stripper, don’t worry).
Contrary to what you might think, I want little to nothing to do with anyone who also, likewise, reads, and/or writes. Because that’s what I do. I’m at the point where I need something a little more interesting, maybe an astronaut, zoo keeper, or an archaeologist. Something like that. I wouldn’t necessarily rule out a spiritual mystic or coal miner, though.
I’m afraid I’m a little more complex than a few measurements, but I’m definitely husbandless. For good reason, if I’m honest.
As a side note, no consideration will be given for your yearly salary. We all want to file as Head of Household, now don’t we?