I’m 18, I’m five-foot-eight, and I don’t think I’m good-looking. That’s how I see myself, anyway. Lately, I’ve been worrying about whether a woman will ever be attracted to me, and some advice I found online has managed to make me feel both slightly reassured and considerably worse.
The advice goes something like this: once people reach 25 or 26, they care more about character and less about looks. I’ve heard versions of it several times. I understand why someone would offer it as encouragement. The way it lands with me, though, is that I might have to wait seven or eight years before romance becomes a possibility.
That’s a long time to imagine spending on the sidelines when you’re 18. I know the advice isn’t an actual schedule, but I keep hearing it as one: get through the next several years, and perhaps someone will finally appreciate you.
What scares me is the possibility of being settled for. I don’t want someone to choose me simply because the qualities I have become more practical or convenient later. I want to be someone she’s excited about. I want to feel wanted, and I don’t know why admitting that makes me feel so exposed.
This isn’t about whether a future girlfriend has dated other people. I don’t care if she’s had partners before me. Her having a past wouldn’t stop what we had from being real. My worry is about how she would feel about me, whenever we met.
I know nobody owes me a relationship. I also have friends and family who love me, and I’m grateful for them. But wanting romantic love doesn’t go away because I have other kinds of love in my life. Sometimes I catch myself thinking that a few more inches of height would make this whole thing easier.
Maybe I’m taking that advice too literally. Still, I went looking for reassurance and came away wondering whether I’m supposed to suppress these feelings for most of the next decade. I don’t need a promise that somebody will love me. I just wish the encouragement didn’t make being wanted sound so far away.
