Don't Drink Bees

I am short. There really isn't any other way to say it. Well, there are other ways but none would make me any taller. Vertically challenged. Petite. No matter what I call myself, I still need a stool to reach the top kitchen cupboards. That's short.

I could blame the genes passed down to me from my vertically challenged family members, but I don't. I blame my childhood bed. I began life at a reasonable size. I was eight pounds - so large that my petite mother had to have a c-section. Strangers would look at me and say, "What a big buster." I raised no alarm among my pediatricians. I maintained my vertical lead over my brother who was two years younger - and then I suddenly stopped growing, and he easily passed me inch after inch. And I never had another growth spurt. I remained a little less than 5'2" (although I round up and give myself the extra quarter inch).

So I blame my bed. It was an antique. Made for smaller people so common in the past. I could stretch my feet down and touch the footboard, so it had to be short. I spent one third of my day in that bed for most of my childhood. And I think, like a fish in a tank that only expands to a size that will fit reasonably within his walls, I too only grew to fit comfortably from end to end in that bed.

What else could explain my lack of size? I never smoked cigarettes or drank strong coffee that might have stunted my growth. All of my cousins - on both sides of the family - are taller than me. Only my grandmother is shorter, and I recently discovered she was a tall 5'3" before she started shrinking, so one day I can look forward to being even smaller than she is now.

My other much, much taller grandmother actually looked down on me with a discerning eye one day and said, "You're a real shortie, aren't you?" as if I were an oddity - which I guess I am in my family. My brothers easily surpassed our father's height, while I have to round up to reach my mother's 5'2". Yes, if we compare family members at their full heights before the onset of osteoporosis, I am the smallest. And I think I will retain that title as later generations grow taller and taller.

There was a time when I shopped in the petite department of clothing stores. It was a place to find shirts that didn't hang toward my knees and pants that didn't hit me in all the wrong places and drag on the ground. But now, the definition of petite has changed to people who are taller than me. Even my petite clothing requires hemming now. So I have made forays into the junior’s department. Sometimes the styles are a bit flashy for me, but they usually win hands down over the petite department that seems to cater to the older, shrinking crowd who apparently are still taller than me.

Pages: 1 · 2