I swim in an indoor lap pool that measures 3'8" in the low end and 4' in the high. Lately, I've become suspicious that the maintenance crew has been dumping more water in the deeper part. Because I have to stand on barefoot tiptoes, and raise my bathing cap-and goggled-head to clear for a breath, I consider reporting the guys for their mischief.
Of course, there's another explanation, which I am loath to consider: that I am continuing to shrink in stature. If this is the cause of my near submerge at the completion of a lap, my future is, well, underwhelming.
Already I feel companionship with Dorothy's Wicked Witch, who we unfortunately delighted in watching her slowily dissolve until only the villain's brimmed hat was visible.
While geriatricians warn that women can shrink as they age, with the possibility of losing three inches by my 82 years, I find no joy in this medicinal confirmation. Nor do their reminders not to slouch, smoke, and drink caffeine or alcohol excessively appease me.
Those of my friends, who share my birth year, are tall enough to afford a bit of shaving. But alas, if this trend continues, my middle school grandson will soon kneel to have a chat with me.
Because I've been short, well, always, I've tried to be upbeat on the advantages that can accrue to teeniest folk like myself. For example, I've never had a problem finding a fellow. In my mind's eye, I see high school and college boys beaming upon meeting me. They react as if I were a pricey auto, rather than a female shorter than they are. "Wow, just look at you!" they once said
Also, good news: I have never seen the top of my fridge, which is handy if one wants to ignore years of accumulated dust and debris from bags of popcorn stored overhead.
In the same territory of advantages, I must use a stepstool to reach my microwave, kitchen cabinets, and closet shelves. Before you interrupt to claim this as a drawback, consider the number of bone-building steps I accumulate through three meals a day plus snacks and the need for storied paper goods; i.e. paper towels, toilet paper, and napkins.
Fortunately, with my fun-loving demeanor, I've managed to switch other minuses into pluses. For instance, in a supermarket I am often as one attempting a climb to Mount Kilimanjaro when seeking a bottle of juice on the very top shelf.
For amusement, I shift my dilemma into comedy. "Tall person," I will call out to a nearly shopper who fits that description. The person I am addressing will typically turn around to ascertain they are my target. Then, they will do the cinematic chest pointing -- "Who me?" -- to confirm.
When I smile and nod affirmatively, I continue my lines, "Could you reach that bottle of Tart Cherry Juice for me?" My voice is sweet, similar to the 25 grams of sugar listed on the nutrition label.
Like a hero racing to rescue the distressed damsel, Tall One strides over, easily, oh so easily, raises a hand and extracts the bottle surely placed there by an evil and disgruntled store clerk,
Naturally, an airline trip (pre-pandemic) scripts a similar scene: my Carry-On suitcase, with a durable polycarbonate hard shell and 360° spinner wheels, remains at my side as I climb upon the arm of my aisle seat to open the overhead.
Fellow passengers watch and whisper, "Oh no, she's not," and swiftly, several male and female fellow travelers unbuckle their seat belts to urge me down. "Let me do that for you," the winner will say, as I ease into elderly grandma mood with an endearing, "You're too kind."
From all of the above you may have grasped that I handle my height humorously. But there is one area attached to my size that continues to gall. It may seem trivial, and perhaps you've been guilty of this too, but I really don't like to be called "cute," "adorable," or some other adjective typically assigned to babies or puppies.
The nasty part of me wants to take a bow and use my forefinger to stretch a side of my mouth to force a smile, similar to a young Shirley Temple. But my better nature usually takes over and I simply say, "thanks." The reason for my discomfort of that failed flattering is that I believe it bypasses the parts of me I prefer being praised: my clever mind, my curiosity, my empathy, my boldness, my sense of humor, and of course, my humility.