A TALL STORY
March 26th, 2004 by susanna
Christina Patrick tells a tall story – her own…
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″Oooooh! Aren’t you tall?!!
Are your parents tall?″
No. They’re not. They’re not tall. No sirree. They’re teeny weeny microscopic Transylvanian dwarf-pixies in a travelling midget circus.
Any more questions?
I mean, let’s approach this logically. I, clearly, am a person of not inconsiderable height. (5’11, since you ask. And a bit.) Ruling out the chances of a terrible accident in a Devon genetic engineering laboratory, what’s the likelihood that one and possibly both of my parents were, in all probability, taking an educated guess, not wanting to be too far out about it, pretty bl***y tall?
Still. This, and a few other inane questions, are just part of life when you’re above average height. It’s a bit like being pregnant (er, or so I’m told). People feel free to make all kinds of personal comments and ask odd questions that they would never think of asking a ″normal″. They also seem to expect you to have never heard them before.
To be honest, I’ve given up being sweet and charming now when someone does the ″aren’t you tall!″ routine. Sometimes, if I’m feeling grouchy, I’ll look shocked and check my body in horror, before letting a terrified ″Oh my God! You’re right!″ escape my lips and thanking them for alerting me to this hitherto unnoticed fact.
But mostly I just smile weakly as the words echo through my cranium for the six thousandth time and say: ″Yes.″
You see, dear readers – and prepare yourselves for a shock here – it’s not something I think about. I don’t spring out of bed each morning trilling:
″Whoooo! I’m so tall!!! Tall am I! Tall! Tall! Tall!″
before doing a little vertigo boogie on the rug. The ground has always been that far away. So it’s always – even now – a bit of a surprise when people start babbling on about it the moment I meet them.
To put it into perspective, I’d never dream of saying, when introduced to someone, ″Blimey! Who ate all the pies?! You’re a bit of a porker, aintcha?″, or ″How’s it going down there, freakishly stunted boy?″
But it’s perfectly OK, apparently, for complete strangers to comment on my height, size, parentage and career choices. Bah.
I can’t do anything about the comments, but a part of me wishes people wouldn’t. I just don’t like people drawing attention to my physical self so obviously, and unprompted. (Whereas if I’m poncing about in a sequinned bikini like Liberace on steroids, then fair cop, guv.)
It’s the same thing as meeting someone for the first time, and they say ″Blimmin’ ‘eck, Nora! What a bangin’ pair of knockers!″
It can be a bit, well, unnerving. And being tall is, like, well – nice, I suppose, but then I don’t know anything else. It’s not that big a deal, and it’s not like I invented the concept or anything. I didn’t win the Nobel Prize for Height.
OK, so that was the rant, let’s look at the pros. I can reach lots of things that are high up. I rarely feel panicky in large crowds. People can always find me (although this is sometimes in the ″con″ column). I have natural confidence and self-assurance (apparently, according to surveys). I’ve never had to prove my age, though that thrill does kind of lose its lustre once you grow out of Snakebite&Black.
The cons? Finding a partner of similar height or taller. Yes I have dated someone shorter; no I don’t like it. I wish it were otherwise, but there you go. Practically speaking, it can have complications. (Let’s face it, when you get horizontal, having your personal sex machine’s feet knocking against your knees can be a little disconcerting).
Anyway, my ego can’t take it, and nor can most people’s. If you see a hetero couple walking down the street, and the guy was taller than the girl, you’d think nothing of it. But if you saw a tall woman with a shorter man, it would be somehow funny. Yes it would. Be honest. You’d notice it. It would look weird. There’s some odd deep social conditioning that makes us just insist that guys should be as tall or taller than their female partners… except when the couple in question is a female supermodel and some kind of billionaire, in which case it’s compulsory for the billionaire to look as much like a hobbit as possible.
On this point, what is it with the really tall men and the really short women? Everywhere I look there’s a strapping six foot something bloke with a teeny tiny little lady of 5’3″ or less. And damn you all, frankly. I know that the set-up is probably delightfully reinforcing your sense of mucho macho masculinity and delicate frou frou femininity, as appropriate, (and hey, why mess with traditional gender roles when it’s so much fun being able to pack your girlfriend into your dirty weekend bag with room to spare for your Brut?) but can you Stop. For. A. Second. And consider where that leaves me in the grand scheme of potential male squeezes.
Yes, class, that leaves me with the dwarves.
Great.
Let’s see… what else is bad…
Finding clothes to fit is a complete pain in the ass (and the arm, and the leg, and… and…) Don’t even get me started on the shoe issue. Jesus. God forbid anyone with size 8+ feet should want to wear fabulous shoes. Oh no, you can stick with the orthopaedic granny slip-ons and the hobnail boots, you slab-footed freak. (I paraphrase somewhat). It’s like being a permanent Ugly Sister. And if I should have the audacity to wear high heels (should I be lucky enough to find some to fit in Trannies R Us)… whoa. This always seems to bring people out in a veritable rash of righteous horror. ″Why are you wearing high heels?! You’re already tall!″ Er, because they look nice? Because I like them? One can wear shoes simply for aesthetic appeal, you know, not just because six-inch slapper-mobiles are required to reach the top shelf in Costcutter.
Another key joy of height is people making daft comments. Especially ones when you’re out at night. Oh yes. Come Saturday night on the town, everyone’s a Dorothy Parker.
″Oi! Big bird!″
et cetera. Oh, ambassador, with these rapier wits you are spoiling us.
And that’s the other thing – ″tall″ and ″big″ are not the same thing, people. A little tip – most girls don’t take kindly to people calling them ″big″, OK? ″She’s a big girl″ is rarely a compliment, even if the girl in question is a prop forward.
Mind you, I suppose if it ever gets too much I can go hang out at my local branch of the Tall Persons Club (yes, really), founded in 1991 and which offers regular social events for the gangly members of society who can’t bear hangin’ with the stunted homies any more. The average female height is 6’1, making me something of a shortarse, really. And that would be a new sensation, as INXS once pointed out.
Before you ask, no, I wouldn’t want to be anything other than the height I am – it’s perfect.
But yes, I wouldn’t mind spending a day as a shortie, just to see what it’s like. And I wouldn’t mind being treated as a human being in shops instead of some kind of obese freak giantess. And I wouldn’t mind world peace, while you’re here. But I’ll settle for you not asking about the parents.
