The Elephant In The Room

I’m not tall. I’m not “abysmally short”, or a “midget” or suffering due to an alarmingly active protest led by my pituitary glands, according to people who ask me to hunt for the idiomatic silver lining.

After they call me short. Offering the above as a peace offering when they decide I have provided for their requisite dose of “let’s-pick-on-the-short-girl”.

My growth chart over the years

I’ve got nothing to complain about. I’m a 5”2’ –ish feet of living awesomeness. But I’ve got a bone to pick with the fates who decided it would be funny if my younger sister was painfully tall. Till about a decade back, everyone was convinced that I had inherited dad’s tall jeans and that my sister was stuck in mom’s short ones.  Then our destinies were swapped with the result that my sister shot up overnight like some damned travesty of Jack’s beanstalk and I was left gaping at my sister’s beautiful neck (‘cause that’s what ‘s at my eyelevel). Needless to say, that particular growth spurt inspired a great many good-humoured digs at poor me. At social functions that begged my attendance, relatives who had been MIA in my life addressed my sister as the older sibling presumably in college. Cousins in middle school and below started measuring their height in Aneta-units. Older cousins convened a meeting to discuss why neither Horlicks nor Complan could work their miracle on me. It’s even more embarrassing when the shoe store stacks size 37 in the kids’ section.

This post came after yesterday when I just about had enough. I was showing off to my ten-year-old cousin how I could still fit into a skirt I’d bought in fourth grade, and she guffawed in my face citing my lack of physical growth as probable cause. Apparently slapping kids is considered psychopathic behaviour.

You know what’s great about being “short”? You don’t have to hold the umbrella when it houses two or more people. Relative strangers tend to underestimate your capabilities – thereby allowing you to enjoy the looks of aghast appreciation when you swear colourfully/yell/punch someone. Short dresses/skirts cover more than just your butt. You can pull off the “I’m-innocent-how-could-I-do-that” face at will. You are also entitled to pull the “I’m-physically-weak-help-me” face when you’re too tired to give a shit about anything that demands sweat. Also Prince Charming will have to literally sweep you off your feet for the big kiss.

Assuming he’s tall, of course. Else all’s well.