Maybe I’m new here, but I’ve been bopping around under the assumption that personal dating preferences range farther and wider than what most anyone can imagine. But if dating apps have taught me—a heterosexual adult woman in this age of 21st-century courtship—anything at all, it’s that a dude’s height is paramount to most other pleasing physical features he could possibly possess (like a Very Nice Face™, my personal preference). “Tall, dark, and handsome,” “tall drink of water”—old-timey phrasing loves to position tall men as the quintessential romantic ideal, but of all the kinks and quirks we’ve adopted into our modern love languages and sexual flavor profiles, tallness remains as dependable as vanilla ice cream on apple pie.

Many apps offer a baked-in option to list your stature, even allowing users to filter their height preferences for a nominal fee (because thirst is not immune to capitalism, no sir). In apps that don’t, however, I find a reference to height in a dude’s profile 99 percent of the time. Either it’s a perfunctory numeral (6’2) occasionally followed by a bio written in emoji, or a slightly snarky “For those who care, I’m 6’1” tacked onto the end of a brief, cryptic bio, like a disclaimer to ensure you read the entire thing to get to the crux. Rarely does any man mention his height if it’s below six feet, I’ve noticed.

I asked friends who swipe if their experiences were similar. Male friends tell me that so many women ask them point-blank how tall they are right off the bat, it’s easier to just include that info in the bio. Male-liking friends of mine tell me, more often than not, that they really prefer tallbois: “He’s gotta be at least six-foot.”

My tall girlfriends want a boyfriend who will still be taller than them in heels. My petite girlfriends want to date a tallboi for no specific reason other than perhaps it makes them feel more petite, like a sexy Baby Yoda. (Euphoria, you’re not helping.)

But what about his hair? His face? His eyes? His smile? The only thing you want off this à la carte menu at Le Bae Bistro is tall? Didn’t your mother ever teach you to come to the buffet hungry, or chide you about having eyes bigger than your stomach (or at least your loins)? Are all my friends little spoons?

Like many powerful women in far more impressive tax brackets than me, I am 5’2”—the height of an Olsen Twin (just Mary-Kate—I believe Ashley is 5’3”), of Reese Witherspoon, of Kim Kardashian. The tallest heels I wear bring me to a fairly modest 5’5”. Most of the men I’ve dated have measured between 5’5” and 6’0”. (Only one of them was salty about it, and not the one you think!) Do I enjoy being the little spoon? Heck, yeah. Do I think it’s cute reaching slightly up on my tippy-toes for a smooch? Sure. Do I like resting my head on a shoulder at the approximate ideal neck-nook height for my stature? You bet your goddamn biscuits I do. All of these adorable things are accessible to me (to us, really) at a bell-curve distribution—the further away from “average” male height (approximately 5’9” in the U.S.) a dude is, the less convenient this all becomes. But that’s not to say any less worth it—your girl does not discriminate based on height!

However, as a member of the below-average-height population (average female height in the U.S. is 5’4”), we petites understand the literal shortcomings of such a lack of reach. A person’s size changes the way they move in the world, how they take up space, and, even more so, how they are regarded in relation to others. Being tall (literally) pays, according to the American Psychology Association, to the tune of nearly 1,000 additional dollars a year, especially when coupled with being fit (read: thin). This is not breaking news, but it’s worth noting that tall men enjoy many other privileges before we even broach dating and mating.