I Wish I Was A Little Bit Smaller

My whole life people have been telling me, “You’ll be so glad you’re tall when you’re older!” I wonder how old I have to be to experience this gladness, because it has not kicked in yet. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve learned to accept my height and my ability to get things from cupboards no one else can reach. I’ve even learned to make my own clothes so that my sleeves and pants legs are long enough to accommodate my long ass limbs. I also occasionally experience the power and intimidation that come with being a woman taller than most women, and even some men, in a room. But don’t think for a second I wouldn’t trade it all in to be just a little bit smaller. 

Growing up in a very tall family – father 6’4”, oldest brother 6’7”, mother 5’9” – I never realized I was “tall” until I went to school and got lined up against the other kids. I was, indeed, a head taller than most of them. This led to the inevitable grade school teasing – Too Tall Wall, getting called The Jolly Green Giant when I wore green on Saint Patrick’s Day – but it also had other consequences. 

When you are taller, you seem older, bigger, more capable. This was the case one day in my elementary school gym class when we were all taking turns walking the balance beam, which was a good 3 or 4 feet off the ground. All of the cute little blond girls ahead of me were followed closely by the gym teacher, who sometimes reached out a hand to steady them, or even held their hand. When my turn came, he said something to the effect of, “Oh, you’re good,” and walked off. 

I was not, in fact, good. First of all, I don’t like heights. More importantly, when you are an abnormally tall young person, you lack a certain grace that other people your age possess. There is a reason you don’t see a lot of tall gymnasts or ballerinas: our centers of gravity are high and we fall down a lot. 

I stood on that balance beam not believing he had actually left me alone to possibly fall to my death, or worse, to my shame. I made it safely to the end, but the message I received was loud and clear: you are bigger, so you can take care of yourself. 

It occurs to me almost half a century later that I could have yelled, “No, come back! I’m scared up here!” or something like that. I don’t know if my pride wouldn’t let me or if I had already learned to not ask for help, based on nothing having to do with my height. 

The one thing I should have been good at – according to everyone I have met – was basketball. I was not. I am clumsy and a very slow runner. No amount of height could overcome those two things on the basketball court, much to my father’s and coach’s chagrin. 

As I advanced through elementary school, roller skating became all the rage and our little town got its very own skate center, complete with all of the 80s arcade games any kid would want to play. This was the place to be on a Saturday night and I was there for it, made even taller by the addition of the skates. 

Each Saturday, I watched my friends pair off with boys to “couple skate,” knowing I wouldn’t get picked, not necessarily because I was too tall. No, I had now translated this bigness into a kind of deformity in my mind and blown it up. I wasn’t pretty and I certainly wasn’t cute, which at that age was the thing you wanted to be. I was, instead, “mature for my age.” That didn’t get me a couple skate to Endless Love. 

“All skate, everybody skate!” became my siren song of freedom. 

Later, in middle school, I had one “steady” boyfriend. This involved a boy asking if you wanted to go steady, usually through a note or proxy, as to do so in person would be horrifying. I said yes to his request for two reasons: he was the only boy who asked and he was taller than me.

As best I can remember, we only went on one date, which was more of a group hang, to see Pretty in Pink in the local two-plex movie theater. All of middle school went there every weekend, as our parents would drop us off and we didn’t have anywhere else to go. Roller skating was super uncool by then. 

We sat on the front row and, as was the custom with steady couples, I sat on his lap, which I find horrifying today, so I can’t imagine how awkward it was then. Actually I can. I remember it was excruciatingly awkward. As being tall had translated to being large in my mind – even though I was a bean pole at the time – I tried to balance my baby beluga whale girth so as not to crush this boy completely. This involved holding myself up slightly with my abdominal muscles and using the armrest as leverage. The upshot of this was hardly being able to walk when the movie was over, as I couldn’t feel my legs or back. He broke up with me at school the following Monday, again through a proxy. 

As I got older, being tall allowed me to easily pretend to be older. With enough makeup and hairspray, I was the one who could buy beer and liquor without getting carded. This was a skill that made me popular with the bad girls. Nothing, though, could make me popular with the boys. 

People say men love long legged women, and that may be true, but, in my experience, they will choose a normal size girl over an Amazon every single time. By the time I was in high school, the boys were taller, so there were more to choose from, but none of them chose me. In retrospect, this may have had less to do with my height and more with my ever devolving ability to stay sober, but the tallness was an easy excuse. 

Into college and the real world, I was told my height made me “intimidating” and that I “strutted.” As far as I knew, I walked like anyone else, I just did it on longer legs. If this changed my cadence, there wasn’t a lot I could do about it. 

A common effect of being so tall is almost daily head rushes. Any time I bend down or over for more than 15 seconds, you can bet that I’m going to see God for a few seconds – or possibly minutes – upon standing up. This freaks some people around me out, until they get used to the fact that I “go away” for a little while after being inverted. This is especially true in yoga classes, where I look like Big Bird trying to get limber. 

Other than while trying on  clothes and nearly passing out, I hardly ever take my height into consideration unless I am talking to a very short or a very tall person. I think it is most disconcerting to meet a woman who is my approximate height. These are the only times that I realize how I appear to other people and it’s hard to believe. I’m that tall? Like really tall? I’m like a damn giraffe. 

I’m sure that I am often described as the “tall, loud” one and that’s OK, because it’s true. My height does make it easy when meeting people in public for the first time. “Just look for the tallest woman there.” It’s like having a hot pink house. You can’t miss me. 

All of this is to say, being tall has never seemed like a major plus in my life. 

And then yesterday in the grocery store, an older woman asked me if I could reach the highest shelf to get her the cereal she wanted. These episodes always start with the asker asking, “You’re tall, Could you reach up there to get me that _________?” I love it when people tell me I’m tall like I’ve never noticed. I wonder if I approached people the same way, what would happen, “You’re old, can you tell me what life was like in the 50s?” “You’re skinny, can you help me climb through this window and rob this house?” 

This time, I felt oddly proud. I AM tall. I CAN get your favorite cereal off the top shelf. I COULD withhold my ability to do this and make you call a manager who may never come.

I have a friend who is 5’ on a good day. I am Talls and she is Smalls. She keeps a stepstool in the house for when people like me aren’t there. This, at least, is something I never have to worry about. 

My husband swears he is taller than me, and maybe he is, but not when I wear anything with a heel on it. He was the first person I met who I never felt inordinately large around. There’s something about being with the right person that makes you feel right sized. 

He doesn’t roller skate, so we can’t couple skate, but that’s OK. He worries when I fall down or trip, as I often do. He helps me over rough terrain and would never leave me alone on a balance beam. He would whip my ass if I got up on a damn balance beam. 

And now that I’m 50 and my metabolism has slowed way down, I’ve learned that an extra ten pounds spreads out a lot easier over a long body than a short one. Suck it, aging. 

Maybe I will come back as a petite and graceful wood nymph in another life. Maybe I will be able to buy clothes at normal places. But truth be told, if I had my pick, I think I’d rather come back as a Trotta housecat, the bigger the better.