When my friend Emma invited me to meet her new boyfriend, Jerry, I was keen, but a bit intimidated.
For weeks, she’d been going on about him. I knew all about his brilliant legal career, wit and, most of all, physique. As far as Emma was concerned, he was Brad Pitt with a brilliant brain. So when they walked in together, my jaw dropped — because he was so short that he barely came up to her waist.
There is something irritating about the utter blindness of a man or woman in love. It takes a will of steel not to snigger as your friend rhapsodises about her Prince Charming who, to the eyes of the rest of the world, is all too clearly a frog.
Somehow, those hormones that zoom around the body in the first flush of love also seem to kit out the eyes with a pair of rose-tinted glasses.
I should know: I’m one of the worst offenders. I still squirm at the memory of the time I bumped into a model agent I knew while out on a first date with a man who, while handsome, I now realise was probably not catwalk material.
‘You should sign him up!’ I said brightly, unable to understand why the agent and my new squeeze turned puce with shame. On another occasion, I took a prematurely balding man, a decade older than myself, to my school disco and when I caught my friends sniggering about him, decided immediately (and inexplicably) that they were laughing because he was so handsome.
Read the whole story: Daily Mail