Some observations from the shorter side of life
My father was almost six feet tall; my mother a mere 5 ft. 2 inches. Everyone watched and wondered. How tall would Rosalie grow? When I was 12 or 13, I screeched to a halt, just shy of 5 ft. 1 inch. Surely this was not the end. But it was.
My adventure into the high heels of the day relieved the squashed sensation. I began to realize that I could sometimes see the tops of others’ heads, but only when I was dressed up in the abominable things. While wearing them, I once tripped forward and slid easily down an entire set of carpeted stairs in public, my new panty hose offering no resistance.
No one wore high heels to junior high. So I continued to be at the first of the line in every class event, be it school pictures, graduation lines, track and field events, you name it. Ironically, I fell in love with a 6 footer and married him. I tucked nicely (still do) under his arm, which is not so bad. I held my breath as our children grew and breathed a sigh of relief when my shortest progeny reached a respectable height of 5 feet 3 inches.
Some might consider shortness a handicap, and it often feels like one. I’m never asked to place the star at the top of the Christmas tree. How many times has some elusive object on the highest kitchen shelf escaped my grasp by an inch or two? I can never really get close enough to the steering wheel and gas/brake pedals.
When my daughter in law, who is just my height, was living with us, we would often joke about it. “Hey, Rose, can you reach that bowl for me?” she would tease. I’ve shortened more pants than I care to remember. Many styles of clothing that others wear with grace, give me a squished look. When my grandchildren reach the age of twelve or thirteen, they shoot gleefully past me, laughing as they look down on me.
This genetic trait penetrates my mother’s side of the family, especially the females. Only my sister broke the mold, reaching an impressive five feet six inches. It’s rumored that our mother swallowed an elastic during the pregnancy. Once at a female cousins’ reunion, the eight of us were having a raucous time at a fish and chips joint near Birch Bay in Washington state. As we exited and walked across the parking lot, a strange man who was approaching from behind us asked, “What is this? A convention of Hobbits?” We were laughing too hard to be embarrassed.
I guess I’ll have to live with it. I expect that my growing days are over.
