The Tall And The Short of It

18 December 2021 06:00 am Views - 388

 

Have you noticed the theory opposites attract seems to hold true where the opposite sexes are concerned? Short gents with tall ladies or vice versa, rather buxom Rubenesque ladies with weedy looking specimens of the male cadre attached to them, or delicate elfin like creatures with large burly muscular types with bulging biceps in shirts one size too small to accentuate their physical attributes, anyway you get the idea. Why you may ask, do I dwell on these matters. Let me clear the air; this has all to do with an incident that still has me breaking into a sweat when I recall it.

New Year's Eve was approaching, and as it so happened friends had booked in a table for the traditional shenanigans to see the old year out and bring in the New Year. Just another year, just another night you may say, and that’s what I thought so too having no inkling of what fate had in store for me. It started with a friend of mine (it always invariably starts with a friend of mine), without embarking on chapter and verse let’s just say the song by Sade, “Smooth Operator” described the gentleman perfectly.

The day before New Year’s Eve, we met up for drinks in the evening. The holiday feeling was upon us and my friend mentioned he was bringing along a date for the dance. The lady in question was someone I knew and I knew my friend had a soft spot for her as well. She was a pretty, dark haired, curvy damsel of a rather mischievous and somewhat tempestuous disposition. Let us call her Lady A (yes by this you would have now deduced there was a Lady B looming on the horizon). We called it a night replete with good food and drink and I surrendered myself to a sweet slumber in the cozy confines of my apartment.

I was rudely woken up to the ringing of my telephone. My bedside clock said 8 am and wondering what emergency prompted a call at this uncivilized hour on a holiday at that, I answered and was met with a, “she’s not coming.” The mists of sleep had still not cleared and I had completely forgotten the conversation of the previous night. “Who is not coming?” I asked. “She’s not coming,” came the reply. By now realization dawned and I gathered ‘Lady A’ had ditched my friend. “That’s no problem,” I consoled my friend, “you can still join us and see the New Year in.” The next sentence that came over the line filled me with trepidation. “I have an idea,” said my friend. “Let’s meet up for lunch.” So having agreed to meet I descended the stairs in search of a much-needed coffee.

We met for lunch and my friend was in a much cheerier frame of mind. He had spent the morning calling every female he knew and finally struck gold. I happened to know this lady as well; a tall gangly, blonde attached to one of the European missions in Colombo. She stood easily over six feet high if memory served me right. A pleasant lady with a gentle, calm disposition (and God help us, she would need it). Let us call her Lady B. So problem solved, or so it seemed we parted company setting our ETA at the hotel for 9 pm. A little early by Sri Lankan standards for a dance (the band is usually tuning up at this hour attired in shorts and tee shirts proudly displaying their knobby knees and best pair of Bata slippers, before they returned in sequined splendor). 

But out of courtesy to our friends from across the seas who still had to get used to Sri Lankan timings we roll up early. 9:00pm rolls around, I arrive at the Cinnamon Grand suited and booted. 

True to form the band is checking sound, knobby knees and all. The stewards are busy setting the tables. Their expressions quite clearly saying, “what are you lot doing here,” and ours is the only table occupied, an island of revelry in a sea of empty tables. Anyway, an hour or so later the lights dim, music plays, the ballroom has gradually filled up and my friend’s lady friend arrives. I couldn’t help noticing she was in a pair of heels making her taller than ever. He presents her with the flower garden he had been carrying around (he doesn’t believe in doing things by halves). I forgo the customary welcome kiss on the cheek, (I would have had to climb on a chair to get there), and settled for a handshake instead. The music begins to build up as it approached the midnight hour. The dance floor is full of frenzied bodies and then my friend pops up like a jack in the box with his lady friend in tow and says, “dance with her.” It was from this point onwards that my night suddenly began to take a downhill turn. In the first place, I have two left feet and dancing is one thing not high on the list of my professional accomplishments.

Secondly, would I be able to reach to get an arm around her waist, I wondered, and at this point I have to say I am not exceptionally tall, but certainly not short either.

Anyway, I did as requested. The band was thankfully playing something quite lively which did not require any body contact, so there I was practicing social distancing, when social distancing was unheard of and at the same time letting my arms and legs wave around hopefully in time to the music. All this time, I was keeping an eye out for my friend, who had disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared and then I spotted him at the entrance to the ballroom and my blood ran cold. Lady A had turned up. I later found out to surprise him and she wasn’t pleased (unfair but who am I to try and unravel female logic). I kept dancing hoping all hell wouldn’t break loose. My friend popped up once more and took over from where he had left off and after a few turns around the floor it was my turn once again. This game of tag went on for almost half an hour. 

While my friend wended his way between the entrance and the dance floor, midnight struck. I grabbed the partner I had come with to at least greet the New Year in with her before being flung back into Lady B’s arms. My friend in the meantime dutifully kissed Lady B, wished her a Happy New Year, hugged me and pushed me once more towards Lady B and did his vanishing trick once again. I presumed to wish Lady A this time. The lights dimmed, the band began to play romantic ballads and short of being an utter cad I had no choice but to scoop Lady B into my arms. Into the breach I went, on tip toes, sincerely hoping my arms were around a waist and not any other part of the anatomy. My face was comfortably ensconced in the valley of a bosom and conversation was kept to the bare minimum since all you would have got from me would have been muffled sentences from down there. After some time passed, I realized my friend hadn’t returned and I also realized my dancing partner was saying something. I got my head out and looked up and with some very astute lip reading managed to ascertain that she was leaving.

In a very embarrassed state, I escorted her to the door making inane excuses for my friend. I saw her into a taxi and then quietly collapsed onto the curb for a much-needed cigarette, suffice to say I haven’t attended a New Year’s Eve ball with my friend for some years now. The hunted look that appears on my face whenever I meet an exceptionally tall lady is something that no psychiatrist can cure.