Eventually, I stopped growing at 5’8”. The perfect height.Unless you are shopping for clothes.
For some reason, women’s clothes are made for short people. Maybe it has to do with the fact that 99% of the clothes we buy come from China and the Chinese are not known for their tall stature. Maybe designers are just playing a cruel joke on tall women by forcing them to buy t-shirts that will shrink to expose their edge of their stomachs, and sweaters that will show their wrists. Who knows. What matters is that I have no choice but to buy the majority of my clothing in the teen boys’ department of Target. Because Target understands that teen boys are eight feet tall with long arms.I am getting tired of wearing these Target t-shirts. I would like to buy a lovely floral print t-shirt that fits in length as well as width, and does not show the world my belly button.
I ask The Husband if he has this issue.“You do know I’m 6’4”, right?” he asks. “My whole life has been one long series of discrimination.”
I wait for him to tell me the horrors of never finding the right size plaid shirt at L.L.Bean, but then he goes and surprises me:“Well, for one thing, doors can be too short, especially in older buildings or attics. I bump my head a lot. I am forced to crouch, and I don’t want to crouch.”
I had not thought of the door thing.“Also, people are always asking me to do things for them.”
Do things? What kind of things?“Reach stuff, hand them stuff, put stuff back. They just assume, ‘Hey, he’s tall! He won’t mind handing me something from the top shelf.’ This happens a lot. At the grocery store, Costco, work, you name it.”
I had not been a victim of the Perpetual Handing Demands myself. This was a new form of tall-ism that I had yet to be exposed to.Now The Husband is on a rant. “I’m like, buy a step-stool, people! Geesh. And the worst is when someone wants to merely look at something on a top shelf and then two seconds later they want me to put it back—like I’m their own personal valet or something. And I can’t say no, because then how rude would that make me look?”
I nod sympathetically but he continues.“The worst was that lady at that musical we saw in New York that time. Remember her? The lady sitting behind us? She wanted me to slouch down in my seat so she could see better! The nerve. I wanted to say, ‘Lady, should I just remove my head? Would that work for you?’ I mean, I can’t help it that I’m tall! And heaven forbid if I want to wear a hat to a baseball game.”
I ask if he wants to be shorter, if that would help ease his perpetual pain of bumping his head or having to help others on a daily basis.“No. No, I don’t want to be shorter. I want them to be taller. Or at least say thank you when I do hand them something. I guess it boils down to that: people expect me to hand them stuff, like it is their God-given right or something, that of course I must not mind because I have nothing better to do than reach stuff for them. Honestly, I am sick of it.”
Right then, our two sons walk in the kitchen from the backyard. “Pop, our football is caught in the tree. Can you get it out?”He doesn’t hesitate. “Of course!”
Then he turns and smiles at me. I guess it must depend on who does the asking.MOV