On the first date, a man demanded that I lose seven kilos to “match” him; on the next date, I showed up with a measuring tape to measure something on him 

The first two dates with Mark were calm and even pleasant. A small restaurant, soft lighting, he behaved gallantly: pulling out the chair, listening attentively, asking questions. He spoke confidently, a lot — about work, projects, business partners. He was a manager at an international construction company, drove a nice car, dressed expensively, and was clearly used to making an impression.

I was 45 at the time. I’m not a model and never have been, but I have a healthy relationship with myself. I go to the gym, try not to eat just anything, and take care of myself. Height: 170 cm, clothing size: 46. I felt comfortable in my body, and before meeting Mark, I had never thought there might be anything “wrong” with me.

The conversation I wasn’t expecting happened on the third date, when we were sitting in a café. He was drinking coffee, I was having tea. The conversation flowed easily until Mark suddenly fell silent and looked at me too closely, appraisingly.

“I like you,” he said. “You’re pretty.”

I smiled, thinking a compliment was coming.

“It’s just that I have a lot of important events ahead. Business dinners, receptions, investors. Everything there has to look… right.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well,” he hesitated slightly, “the woman next to a man of my level should look perfect. You’re good, really. But if you lost a bit of weight… five to seven kilos — that would be ideal.”

For a second, I was speechless. Then I looked at him more closely. The shirt that was clearly too tight. The belly he instinctively sucked in when he stood up. The chin that doubled when he leaned toward his phone.

“So,” I said calmly, “just to stand next to you, I need to urgently change my body?”

“Why are you taking it that way?” he smiled condescendingly. “I love order. Perfection. It’s good for you too.”

I didn’t argue. I said I’d think about it, blamed fatigue, and went home. But inside, I felt uncomfortable and empty.

I still went on the fourth date. Not because I wanted to, but because I decided to put everything in its place. Before the meeting, I went into a store and bought a simple measuring tape. I put it in my bag and went to the restaurant.

We sat by the window. Mark ordered meat and wine. I ordered a salad because I’d already eaten.

“I’m glad you listened to me,” he said with satisfaction. “A woman should adorn a man.”

“I agree,” I nodded. “In a couple, compatibility matters.”

He tensed up.

“In what sense?”

I took the measuring tape out of my bag and placed it on the table. Mark looked at it as if I’d pulled out a knife.

“What’s that?”

“A very simple tool. Please stand up. I need to measure something. ”

What I did next, I described in the first comment 

“Are you serious? There are people here.”

“It’s fine, we have a separate table. Stand up. You’re a confident man, aren’t you?”

Reluctantly, he stood up.

“Raise your arms.”

Calmly, I wrapped the measuring tape around his waist. I looked at the numbers.

“One hundred and one centimeters, Mark.”

“So what?” he tried to pull in his stomach.

“So this,” I said, “according to medical standards, for men anything over ninety-four centimeters is already a health risk.”

I removed the tape and looked him in the eyes.

“If we’re talking about standards and status, they have to be mutual. It’s important to me that the man next to me is healthy, active, and takes care of himself. To match my standard of living, you’d need to lose at least ten centimeters.”

It went very quiet around us. His face first turned red, then pale.

“Do you even understand what you’re saying?” he hissed. “I’m a man. I make money.”

“And I’m a woman,” I replied. “And I make money too. But I don’t allow myself to tell my partner what he should be like, especially if I myself am far from perfect.”

He started saying I was rude, that with such a character I’d end up alone, that I didn’t understand anything about life.

I called the waiter and paid only for my own order.

“You can keep the measuring tape,” I said as I stood up. “It’s a useful thing. When you’re ready to meet the same standards you demand from others — don’t call me.”

I walked out of the restaurant feeling light. As if I hadn’t gotten rid of extra kilos, but of other people’s expectations, arrogance, and imposed insecurities.