Well, diary, it's official – I, Gwen McCauley, am embarking on a date—a proper date, mind you, the first in nearly a year. It's not as if finding a date was a monumental task. Quite the opposite, really. The issue at hand was that I simply wasn't feeling it. Well, that's a bit of an understatement. It was more about my state of mind— a mindset that had been meticulously crafted by the fears, thoughts, and behaviors I picked up during the past decade of the great pandemic. Extricating myself from that train of thought turned out to be a lot trickier than you'd imagine.

Fast forward to today, over two years since the pandemic had sputtered to its end. After surviving years of relentless, nearly apocalyptic catastrophes, life was finally starting to regain some semblance of normalcy. That bizarre, otherworldly disease was pretty much history, and it’s only now most of the emergency measures have been ditched. It's like we've just emerged from a year-long cocoon of isolation, endless Zoom Meetings, working in my PJs, Netflix binges, and virtual happy hours with my trusty few friends.

Describing my return to the long-lost "normal" as unsettling and a bit disorienting would be the understatement of the century. I'd fared better than most during those years, mainly because I'd spent them with my parents and my grandma. You could say I'm a bit of an odd duck. Isolation didn't hit me as hard as it did my peers. I'd spent most of high school, undergrad, and grad school cloaked in isolation, navigating life through the lens of a computer screen. Don't get me wrong; it was no walk in the park, but solitude, in many ways, had been incredibly freeing for an introvert like me. There was something liberating about not having to put on a facade in front of others all the time. At times it felt almost therapeutic.

But the aftermath of years of global chaos and isolation left its mark, even on us introverts. It wasn't just those unfortunate souls who battled the worst of the virus head-on. Even those of us lucky enough not to have been cursed with the two oncogenes were scarred in our own way. My generation missed out on all those quintessential coming-of-age experiences – the high school drama, the proms, road trips, part-time jobs, dorm shenanigans, epic parties, and spring break adventures. Even those universal rites of passage, like puberty, we experienced mostly in isolation. And as much as I adore my alone time, even I had to admit that the craving for human connection was real.

And just like that, it was over. The world suddenly gave us permission to go out, to mingle, to visit friends, to hug, kiss, and revel in our humanity. The return was a struggle for everyone—governments, societies, businesses, families, friends. We were all in this together, embarking on a journey that would take years to get back to what we once considered "normal."

Honestly, I was terrified at first. The idea of interacting with people, of stepping out of my cocoon of safety and into the unknown, was unnerving. It felt a bit like emerging from a dark cave into the blinding sunlight. I hesitated to visit stores, dine at restaurants, or engage with strangers. But, you know what they say, you've got to face your fears. So, I dabbled in it, bit by bit. It was like taking one step forward and two steps back, but eventually, I sort of, kind of, found my groove with this "new normal."

What my generation and I discovered was that we had all, even the fortunate ones, lost a part of our humanity during the pandemic. Learning to reconnect and interact with each other presented a formidable challenge for many of us. It was as if we had been frozen in time, our emotional development stunted, and the mere act of being around people had become more difficult than ever before.

Then there was the dating part. During the pandemic, I had dipped my toes into the world of virtual "dates" and even experienced an impulsive teenage hook-up where I lost my virginity. Now, in this post-pandemic world, I found myself in a rather unexpected predicament. It was as if the floodgates had swung open, and I was suddenly inundated with a deluge of attention from men. They were practically falling over themselves to ask me out, eager for a taste of intimacy and connection that had been sorely lacking during the pandemic's darkest days. In fact, it seemed like everyone was caught in the throes of an insatiable longing for human connection, bordering on the downright lustful.

The atmosphere was charged with an unmistakable sense of desire, and it felt like everyone unattached was on the prowl, seeking solace and pleasure in one another's company. Everyone, that is, except for me. While the world around me seemed to be embracing this newfound liberation with open arms, I couldn't help but feel like an outlier, as if I were observing the chaos from the periphery of a wild party to which I hadn't received an invitation.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I was right there with everyone else when the world reopened. But I just wasn't ready for the whirlwind of drama that dating seemed to entail. Men, oh, they were something else. They came on so strong, like they were auditioning for a reality TV show, not even pretending to form a real connection. Every choice felt like a high-wire act, one misstep away from hurt feelings or worse. Saying no was like navigating a minefield, with the looming possibility of dealing with a man's disappointment, anger, or whatever other undeserved expectation or emotional baggage he brought along. I mean, it might sound silly because, let's face it, most women have been through it, but it just didn't seem fair. Dating was an emotionally risky business, sure, but I didn't sign up for this level of pressure.

After about a month of trying out clubs, enduring blind dates, and swiping through Tinder profiles, I threw in the towel. There were other things in my life that needed my attention, and I couldn't be bothered with affairs of the heart. That is until I met Ian.

I had a rather old-school encounter with Ian, if you can believe it. It all began in this quaint British literary chat group, dedicated to the 18th and 19th centuries. Forget the swiping and profile browsing; our connection happened serendipitously, just the way Jane Austen might have approved. Ian had joined the group on a whim, driven more by a desire to discuss the cultural and political influences of the Regency era, while I, on the other hand, was all about my love for literature.

Being young Americans sharing an obsession with late 18th-century Britain made us the eccentric ones in the group, especially considering that most of the members were decades older than us. From snarky comments and lively debates on each other's posts and essays, we progressed to texting, exchanged pictures, and eventually took the plunge into Zoom meetups and online dates.

It was almost uncanny how much we had in common. Our interests aligned perfectly, and our likes and dislikes seemed to mirror each other's. We even discovered that we were both born and raised in Afton.

Ian came from old money, with an old Virginian family name. His parents were surgeons, and he was essentially a trust-fund baby, though you'd never guess it from his down-to-earth demeanor. He had recently completed his graduate program at the University of Edinburgh and had also been involved with an NGO during his last semester there. Ian's backstory had raised a few suspicions, but a quick Google search confirmed its authenticity.

I hadn't been looking for a relationship when we crossed paths, but sometimes life throws you a curveball. I couldn't help but fall for Ian. He was intelligent, had a great sense of humor, and was incredibly sensitive. Strangely, it was as if he could read my mind. He seemed to know exactly what I needed, without me even having to ask. He had this emotional radar that left me dumbfounded. No prying questions or pushing; he knew when to show up and when to give me space. Our conversations flowed so naturally that I felt at ease sharing my deepest thoughts with him.

Even though the pandemic was finally behind us, we were still doing the whole pandemic dating thing. There was one tiny snag, though – I had never actually met Ian in person. He was still in Edinburgh, knee-deep in his final semester, while I had landed my first gig at Fickland University. Ian was a bit of an enigma, an American living abroad. His online footprint was next to non-existent, with few friends to speak of, but he didn't come across as a recluse. He was just a private guy, and that was something I found rather appealing.

Now, all this happened last year, but just recently, he made his way back to the States after snagging a remote gig with an investment group. You know, the ones that were financing start-ups with groundbreaking technologies aimed at helping Nexie survivors. Ian had been back in town for almost two months before he dropped that bombshell on me. I couldn't help but feel a tad miffed about it, but Ian wanted to get all settled in his new place before we finally locked eyes in person.

Oh, the jitters were real. It was like stepping back into the world of actual dating, you know, the kind where you eat indoors in a public place, just like my parents used to do when they were my age. Sure, I'd gone out and embraced the single girl life for a couple of months, but afterwards, I sort of slipped back into my cozy isolation cocoon. But this was different; this was Ian.

I sat there in my apartment, feeling like a silly teenager on her very first date, anxiously awaiting his arrival. My heart was doing its own little tap dance. Ian would be here any minute. I snuck a final peek in the mirror and, well, I couldn't help but feel a bit bashful about my appearance. I'd gone for a daring, skimpy floral minidress, bordering on the edge of what some might call "slutty," paired with my brand-new four-inch heels.  I mean, Ian was about six feet tall (thank you, old profile stalking), a smidge on the shorter side for me. But hey, an inch and a half from the heels wasn't going to kill anyone, right? Plus, the dress and heels made my legs look absolutely fab, and that's exactly what I was going for.

I kept glancing at my phone, anxiously awaiting that text – he should be here any second. I was being ridiculous, fretting over nothing. "Calm down, Gwen," I muttered to myself. "It's just a date. We've practically known each other for a year. All secrets and insecurities are out in the open. He knows me. He hasn't sprinted away in terror. What's left is just the physical consummation of our relationship. No biggie, right?" As I contemplated texting him, my thoughts were interrupted by a faint sound – a gentle tapping at the door.

My heart skipped a beat. How long had Ian been standing there? And why was he knocking instead of just ringing the doorbell?

"Coming!" I called out, all the while hastily smoothing out invisible wrinkles on my dress. I took a deep breath, pulled myself together, and finally, with my heart doing somersaults, I swung the door open.

"Hi, Ian! It's so nice to fin…"

But wait, there was no one there. I blinked in confusion and did a quick scan from one side of the door to the next. Did I just imagine someone was at the…

"Hi, Gwen! It's so nice to meet you in person. Wow! You look amazing."

The voice was... below? I couldn't believe my eyes as they followed the sound down to its source.

"Ian!?" I exclaimed, both surprised and taken aback.

It was indeed Ian, in the flesh, only one thing was glaringly obvious – he was not tall. Actually, he wasn't just "not tall"; those words fell painfully short of doing justice to Ian's stature. He was TINY. And when I say tiny, I mean it in every sense of the word. He was looking up at me, holding several long-stem roses that were almost as long as he was. I couldn't help but just stand there, dumbfounded, at a complete loss for words. I'm pretty sure he didn't even come up to my knees.

"Ummm, hi," I managed to stammer.

"Sorry I'm late," he squeaked, seemingly unfazed by my surprise. "My Uber took forever to get to my place." He extended the roses up towards me with a cheerful smile, seemingly oblivious to the gaping difference in our heights.

"Here, these are for you."

I stood there, mouth agape, barely registering his gesture. I bent down, way down, to accept the roses. “Oh, thank you, these are lovely”, I mumbled. Ian smiled, he seemed oblivious to my shock. Ian didn’t tell me he was an “Opa”, which in this case is not a German grandfather but judging by his size an OPA70 gene carrier, a Nexie.  Or to be formal, a NExVID survivor. I wasn’t expecting this. The enforced isolation of the pandemic had left most of my generation naive about the pitfalls of dating, including me. Though I was mindful about checking out a story, it never occurred to me to ask him if he was a Nexie. I just assumed when I saw a profile pic in my google search that he was six feet. Plus, he’s a townie like me. He looked tall in the pics and videos he sent me. Then I mentally kicked myself. I never saw a pic of him next to other people or even everyday objects. Just selfies of him on his hikes in the barren highlands.

I don’t know why, but for me it’s difficult to talk about the pandemic. The online fantasy world I created was an escape from the awful reality. I never asked any person I met if they were one of the victims. I didn’t really want to know. It seemed obvious to me that most of them were not. Now I wasn’t so sure.

“Ummm… are you ready? The uber driver is waiting.” I blinked as if woken from a stupor. Ian was staring up at me perplexed. I hoped I wasn’t still staring at him with my mouth agape. Nope, I was still paused in mid-crouch holding the roses. “Our reservation at Céline’s is a little over an hour, but I thought we could sit at the bar for a drink.”.

I was left utterly dumbfounded. Why did Ian keep this from me? Why hide something like this? Anger surged within me, blinding me to everything else. He hadn't exactly lied, but he had certainly kept a significant detail hidden. I wanted this man more than I'd ever admitted, but now... well, now, things felt different. We had this amazing relationship, and yet he'd concealed this from me. Nine months of dating, and it felt like a betrayal.

I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, and I couldn't let him see me like this. "Ian, I need to grab a few things. I'll be right back. Just wait here," I blurted out without waiting for his response.

I rushed back to my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. Sitting on my bed, I couldn't hold back the flood of tears any longer. He lied to me! This doll-sized man showed up at my doorstep, thinking everything was just fine. I was aching for so long to take this man, but now, I wasn't sure I even wanted to touch him. I began sobbing, trying my best to stifle the sounds, but it only seemed to make things worse.

What do I do?  Do I slam the door in his face? Throw the flowers at him? Call him a shrimp and tell him to fuck off? I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. That's just not me. I was never really good at being an angry bitch, even when someone absolutely had it coming. I could've gone the easy route and tell him I'm not feeling well, and then ghost him. Just ignore him. He would eventually get the message.  But that wasn't really my style either. No matter how tough the situation, I've always been one to tackle things head-on. I couldn't just toss aside all those months we spent together. This wasn't okay, and he needed to know exactly how I felt. Maybe, just maybe, giving him a dose of reality would make him think twice before treating another woman like this. Why on earth would an Opa think it's acceptable to hide their size? That asshole should stick with his own kind!

"Okay, Gwen, that wasn't cool," I muttered to myself. Love comes in all shapes, genders and sizes, right? Now, on top of everything else, now I’m a shallow bitch, I was wrestling with guilt and shame in this bubbling stew of emotions. "Thanks, Ian. Thanks for tossing this delightful mess into my lap," I bitterly laughed between sobs. An inner voice chimed in, trying to soothe my guilt. "You're not shallow, Gwen, you know that. You don't judge a man by his height."

So, yeah, I’m tall. Not towering basketball or volleyball girl tall, but tall enough to easily break six feet in a pair of heels. But you know what? I'm perfectly fine with it. Back in middle school, being tall was a bit of a nightmare, but I've grown (pun not intended) to embrace it. I'm comfortable rocking a pair of heels and towering over people. As for dating, I don't have a strict height requirement. It really depends on the guy. I do have a soft spot for someone with an athletic build and a bit of scruff on their face, but being tall is not a must. I could see myself dating a guy who's 5'7 or even 5'4.

But an Opa? Seriously, how tiny is he? I didn't get a proper look at him, but I doubt he's even two feet tall. Trying anything physical with Ian would be utterly ridiculous. Plus, I could accidentally hurt the itty-bitty guy.

My thoughts were interrupted by Ian’s high-pitched squeaking. “Gwen, are you ok?” Geeze! His voice sounded even more shrill than previous, why did he sound normal online?

I mean, what's a girl to do? My brain was a swirling mess of tangled emotions, making the choice of whether to ditch Ian even more of a Herculean task. Seriously, what was I supposed to do? I loved the guy, no doubt about it, but I was also angry and, more importantly, hurt. I felt betrayed, and that pain triggered a darker side of me, one driven by the desire to hurt him back. But how?

 And then it hit me, this wickedly brilliant idea. He wants a date, right? Well, let's give him a date—a big, epic date. Let's see how much fun the tiny runt has trying to keep up with me.

So, I decided to play it cool. "Oh, Ian," I called out, putting on my best "I'm totally fine" voice. "I've had this on-again, off-again headache all day. But I popped some Advil right before you showed up, and I'm feeling way better now. Did you mention Céline's?"

"Yeah," came his tiny voice.

"It's only a few blocks away, and the evening is just so beautiful. Why don’t we walk?"

"You want to walk?" Ian sounded, like, totally baffled.

I popped my head out of my bedroom door. I hope he couldn’t tell I was crying, though from his vantage point I doubted it. He stood by the front door in my living room, resembling Gulliver in a Brobdingnagian apartment.

Taking a deep breath, I summoned all my composure and shot him a sweet, sunny smile. "Yeah, it’ll be fun!" I replied.

Ian appeared uneasy, his hand nervously finding its way to the back of his neck. "Umm...okay," he replied, his eyes meeting mine with a hint of determination. A faint smile graced his lips. "That would be fun."

"Great! Just give me a few more minutes, and I'll be right out," I said, my faux enthusiasm covering my anger.

Ian hovered by the door, looking slightly lost. "So, why don't you settle up with the driver and meet me back here?" I suggested.

He glanced up, a bit startled. "Oh, sure thing. I'll be right back."

I watched as he half-walked, half-climbed down the three steps to the sidewalk. I retreated to my bedroom, determined to fix the mascara that had been ravaged by my earlier tears. After gathering a few things, I made my way back to the living room, where I found him waiting. The door was still ajar, and I had a pretty good idea why—it was likely too big for him to close. And that dear diary, was when I had to suppress a laugh.

Now, I'd be remiss if I didn't acknowledge that he looked ridiculously handsome standing there. The soft lighting played on his blue shirt and jeans, highlighting those muscles and chiseled features in all the right ways. Perfect, except for one glaring detail: he was standing next to a pile of my shoes by the door, that absolutely dwarfed him. His confidence only added to the absurdity of the scene. the heels of one pair easily came up to his knees!

What made this situation all the more maddening was his stubborn refusal to acknowledge the fact that he's an Opa. He just stood there, this awkward reality hanging over us like a dark cloud. I stared at him, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment, some sign that he understood the elephant in the room. But no, not a word. No, “Hey Gwen, I’m so sorry I should have told you…” or “I guess we have things to discuss…”  It took every ounce of restraint not to scream.

"Ready?" I finally asked, breaking the tense silence.

"Yup, let's go," he replied cheerfully, as if the past few minutes hadn't been the most bizarre dating moments of my life.

I strolled past him, and I couldn't help but notice that he had to tilt his head almost vertically to meet my gaze. I looked down at him and did a quick mental measurement. Yup, not even up to my knees. The situation was getting more surreal by the second.

Unfortunately for Ian, despite my best efforts to conceal it, my anger was seeping through, evident in the determined tap of my footsteps. I wasn't quite stomping, but I was definitely channeling that powerful-woman-strutting-in-heels vibe. Ian, of course, was in no danger of being flattened, but my right foot came down with a tad more force than expected.  Startled, he accidentally stumbled backward, right into a pair of my flip flops, toppling onto my shoes in a heap.

I paused, gazing down at him as he untangled himself from the shoe jungle, and a giggle escaped my lips. "Oops," I quipped, a smirk playing on my lips, before sauntering outside.

I waited impatiently by the door as he stepped outside, brushing off the dust from his little fall. After locking the door, I began to stride away, feeling thoroughly embarrassed. I mean, seriously, I must look like a colossal monster. Maybe it hadn't been the wisest idea to take a stroll down the street with an Opa chasing me, but anger had taken hold, and I was determined to make him pay for keeping this secret from me. If he wanted to date a giant, well, then I'd give him the full giant experience.