Cara and I attended a 50th birthday party last weekend. The theme was the “senior prom”. A professional photographer took prom pictures of middle-aged couples decked out in formal attire. Cara, having not attended her prom, was especially tickled. She re-engineered a long black dress into an elegant gown, put on some make-up and high heels, and looked stunning. I put on my tuxedo for the first time in three years and became puzzled and finally disturbed.
The jacket was a little tight. I expected that having been cooped up during the pandemic. What alarmed me were my pant legs. They were at least a half-inch longer. The upshot being: Not only am I getting wider… I’m getting shorter! I’ve been 5”10” forever, although I’ve been accurately 5’ 9 ¾”, but if you’re rounding off, I’m not really lying. After this stark revelation, I would have to retreat to 5’9”. Single digits. I would be less of a man. A whole three quarters of an inch less.
It’s not something that’s easy for others to spot. No one comments “I’ve never noticed this before, but I believe I’m looking down on you.” Rude strangers don’t call me “Shorty”. I’ve yet to hear, “Hey Pipsqueak! Could you fit into the crawlspace under my house and check if my sump pump is still working?” The only possible clue might be that now when Cara wears heels, we are almost eye-to-eye.
There is plenty of shame moving down a notch in height. At 5’10” I was in the same club as Paul Newman, Robert Redford, and Daniel Craig. But at a measly 5’9”, I’m forced to hang with Steve Buscemi, Boris Johnson, and Pope Francis, although I heard the Pope was only 5’8 ½” and had extra cushion sown into all his red shoes. But hey, if the only time most people see you is from a balcony, what’s the difference?
My father was only 5’7”. My mother was 5’1”. So, at 5’9” I guess I shouldn’t complain. Cara is 5’4”, a good height, but certainly not WNBA material. Our son, Roy, is 6’0”. If you extrapolate that out a couple of centuries, only Amazons will roam what’s left of the earth, probably delivering Amazon packages to each other from floating Amazon distribution centers.
Until now, I never considered my height detrimental. I married well and have enjoyed my choice in profession. My inability to dunk has never been an issue. I do, however, notice when a guy is noticeably bigger. Green Bay Packers quarterback and fellow Cal alum (Berkeley grads always brag), Aaron Rodgers, is 6’3”, 225 lbs. His head, hands, and calves are appreciably larger than mine. Throw in the fact that he is extremely handsome, and if we were standing side-by-side I would, in effect, disappear.
I’ll wager a pair of my tiny size 9 wing tips, that every male contestant on The Bachelor is over six feet. Unless next season’s Bachelorette is 4’8”, don’t even allow your tiny fingers to fill out an application. You must be this tall to go on this ride.
I have wondered about the view from up there. Professional athletes must drown in “come hither” stares every time they step outside. They probably have bruises all over their bodies from people flinging themselves at them. They are so damned visible. I bet most murders are committed by small men that never played sports. No one notices us. Oh, I played in grammar school. Just no one noticed. Especially the coach. I still have bench marks on my butt.
The truth is that some guys walk down the street and people go “Wow. Look at that guy!” Other guys walk down the street and, as people move to the other side of the street, they go, “Eww, look at that guy.” I walk down the street and people go, “What guy?”
Entering the birthday party ballroom, I could see what was transpiring: one hundred people had gathered to pay tribute to a fine woman who had decided she wanted to see all her family and friends dress up like they were still in high school. She was genuinely grateful, tearing up, as she thanked us all for attending. Her husband professed his love for her and bid us all to belly up to the bar. As I applauded, my thoughts went back to reconciling my new role as the “Expandable, Shrinking Man”.
I’d get lost in conversation during the evening but, when left alone, I wallowed in self-pity. I looked at other men, shorter than I, who were having a good time. “See, it can be done”, I cajoled myself. “After a while, you won’t even notice”. I saw tall men who looked bored, even sad. That cheered me up.
Then I thought about the Body Mass Index Chart in my doctor’s office. By dropping an inch might I slip into a different color category? I checked as soon as I arrived home. Thankfully, I am still in the yellow, or “overweight” block, although I have moved up from 27 to 28. 24 is considered healthy. I am moving in the wrong direction. If I want to be “healthy” according to the BMI, I will have to grow another four inches. The alternative is getting down from 180 to 160. I can’t see that happening unless I surrender a leg.
So, if I seem distracted next time I see you, I’m probably still adjusting to the extra oxygen. And if you want to come by, I’ll be down here. Here! HERE! Hello? I’M, DOWN HERE!
A Not Tall Enough Tale
I'm 5'5-3/4" tall - although perhaps I should say I'm 5'5-3/4" short. So I hate you. That party theme was a great idea, although if Ellen and I attended one she'd probably try her best to make it more authentic and dump me after the prom. ;)
… another great piece. And I feel your pain, Dan. I’m 3 inches taller.