I am short.
I mean, not dangerously short. I don’t run a risk of poking my eye out on a door handle or anything like that. But short nevertheless. As in, if I’m not wearing heels, I can stand straight up from my seat on an airplane and not hit my head on the console above me.
Those of you who know what I’m referring to will agree: that’s short.
I’ve no particular issue with my height. At times I wish my legs were longer, because skirts look ghastly on me, but that’s about it. I don’t actually wish to be taller, except on those rare occasions when Rand puts the cereal on the top shelf, and I can’t find my stepping stool.
Oh, and during concerts. Because concerts, when you’re 5’2″? Those suck beyond belief. Here, in brief, is what it’s like:
Arrive at venue. Suddenly become aware that nearly all of your friends are absurdly tall. Seemingly at the same moment, they notice your height for the first time. They stare at you blankly, with an expression that reads, “How did I never notice before that she’s a pygmy?”
After a few seconds, you friend will utter the phrase that you’ve heard time and again – the one that is always on your mind: “Are you going to be able to see?”
You shrug, and say your are going to be fine, because that seems easier than screaming, “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK?” and insisting they carry you on their shoulders.
Folks begin filter in. Claustrophobia ensues, as you become intimately acquainted with the middle of people’s backs.
Every concert I've been to, EVER.