Before we dive into my deep-seated height issues, here are some stats. The average female’s height is around 5”5 (or 163 cm, in countries that actually make sense). As far as I know, I’m 5”7 (170 cm). So yes, technically, I hate myself, too.
Anyway, I say I’m 5”7 “as far as I know” because I really don’t know at all. I don’t make a habit of measuring myself anymore, mostly because doing so just got too depressing.
Four years ago, when measuring my height at home
Me: *straining neck to appear taller* What does it say???
Mom: 169 cm. Try for 170. Models have to be at least 170.
Three point five years ago
Me: *raises chin* What now?
Mom: 169 cm. Wait…
Me: What? I got taller?!?
Mom: … 169.1 cm. By the way, models have to be at least 170.
Three years ago
Mom: 170 cm!
Me: No way!
Mom: Good. Models have to be at least 173.
Me: Models also have to be at least reasonably attractive.
So now I rely solely on the numbers from my yearly physical exams. That way, I can content myself with the possibility that my doctor has bad eyes and is accidentally shaving off an inch from my height every time she reads from the scale. For the past three years.
I mean, she’s a pediatrician, not an optometrist. Mistakes happen.
… Actually, I might be serious. Considering how people shorter than me claim to be 5”9 and people taller than me claim to be 5”7 and all of us cite actual doctors to prove the accuracy of our claims, I can only conclude that all pediatricians in my area are a) incapable of measuring tall people, b) putting down random numbers just to see if anyone notices, or c) trying really hard to further prove that doctors have awful handwriting.
Looking back on what I’ve written so far, I guess it’s just that I hate people taller than me. Why?
Here’s an example: yesterday’s Ed Sheeran concert. It was actually in my city—which meant I had to go, if not only for the shock value of something actually happening around here—and held in one of the football stadiums my drill team performed at last year. My group had GA (general admissions) tickets, aka first-come-first-serve, so we arrived an hour and a half early to get good spots on the field.
Of course, there’s already a crowd. It’s relatively loose, though, so we’re able to worm our way closer to the stage. We decide ten or so rows away from the stage is good enough, because we’re excited, not stupid.
The crowd goes wild. I whip my head up. It’s a stage technician. He sets a microphone up and walks off.
Jamie Lawson, who’s opening for Ed, appears, and that’s when I really notice who’s standing in front of me.
Look, I’m fine with you being tall. Really jealous, but fine; you can’t control that. I’m fine with the hairstyle itself. In fact, I like it. The sunflowers are a nice touch. I would just appreciate the aesthetic a whole lot more if it was not basically an extra head added to your height. While it’s admittedly nice to look at, you know what else would be nice to look at? The stage.
Please be considerate, I plead via brain wave, like she’ll receive the message and take down her offending bun.
Friend: Have you thought of a blog post idea yet?
Me: “Why I hate tall people.”
Friend: *laughs* But you’re tall.
I realize that the people behind me are probably cursing me for blocking their view as well. I ask them if I am, and they lie and say no because they’re nicer people than I am.
The crowd shifts. The tall bun girl disappears, and another tall guy replaces her.
This is my view now. Karmic justice for all my complaining, probably.
The tall guy seems to realize that I’m struggling to see over his shoulder, and angles his body slightly sideways. I look up at him in shock, but his eyes are trained on the stage.
It’s a little act of kindness–or maybe it was unintentional–but I smile through the next three hours of tired feet, pulsing music, and beautiful moments.
*Apparently, all my friends except me recognized my face on the big screen at the end, too. So that’s always a plus.