A Tall Story
A short person’s tale of living in a tall body
I’m tall. That’s what people always say about me — that I’m tall.
“You’re so tall, Libby. Are you getting taller?” they say and then look down at my shoes to see if I’m wearing high heels. When my friend Katrina introduces me to people, she’ll say, “That’s Libby, she’s the one who keeps getting taller.”
I look at them, sheepishly, wondering how I should behave. Should I be quiet and reserved to compensate for my height?
The strange thing is that I’m really a short person trapped in a tall person’s body. It wasn’t until I was sixteen that I began to grow, by which time my body image was firmly established. I clearly remember my shock the day I discovered I was tall.
I’d spent five years of high school joined at the hip, shoulder to shoulder with Katrina, until one day at exactly the same moment, we both noticed I was now taller than her. Like a whole head taller.
When did that happen? Last night? Last week? I shifted around to see if I could settle deeper into my hip sockets, but this newfound height remained. I’d always enjoyed the Bobbsey twins-ness of Katrina and me. Now we were more Laurel and Hardy, and I was uncomfortable with my new role.
My boyfriend was unimpressed by this sudden growth spurt. Once I reached his eyebrow-level he announced I was too tall. “I like girls to be about this tall,” he said, indicating his chin. That was now out of the question so I was superseded by a more compact version.
Being tall was clearly not a good thing. At parties, it seemed to me that all the girls were exactly five-foot-four. They formed small, girly groups and spoke in conspiratorial tones about boys. I longed for the days when I fitted seamlessly into such a clique.
I was Alice in Wonderland after the growth potion.
After leaving school I slimmed down, fuelling perceptions that I was continuing to grow (or maybe I was continuing to grow). Whenever I bumped into former classmates they’d say, “Gee, I don’t remember you being that tall at school!”
I was in my thirties, when my husband and I moved to New York for his work. Before we left Australia, I was put in touch with Allison, the cousin of a friend, who lived there, and we arranged to meet. She later told me that I was much taller than she’d expected from our phone calls.
“How tall did you think I’d be?”
“I don’t know. You just didn’t sound as tall as you are.”
That summer Katrina (five-foot-four) visited from Australia. After meeting her, Allison said to me, “That’s how tall I thought you’d be — about the same height as Katrina. I thought you’d look like Katrina, as well.”
So not only do I sound as if I’m five-four, but also blonde haired and blue-eyed. How do other dark haired, brown-eyed people sound — and how tall should they look?
Other visitors from home also commented on my ever-increasing height, so I checked with my doctor who assured me I didn’t have late-onset giraffism. My husband said he would have noticed if I’d been growing for the last fifteen years.
So, what was going on? I felt like one of those visual perception puzzles in psychology text books, where a staircase appears to be continuing to rise, but never gets any higher.
Despite appearances I was not growing. I tried not to think of my height as a defect any longer — until the next conversation with my mother, when she cast the T-word in a distinctly negative light.
“You know how you were always too tall…,” she said, comparing me to one of her friend’s daughters who apparently was not. I was so shocked I didn’t hear the rest of her sentence. Other terms, such as “so” tall and “really” tall, were technically non-judgmental, but “too” tall was unambiguously bad — and that from my own mother.
My niece has always been one of the smallest in her class and very comfortable with her size. In an attempt to protect her from a lifetime of confused body image, I mention the possibility that she might end up being tall. She just looks at me with a “so what” sort of expression.
She’s right. So what! It’s time to accept what the genes have dished out. Although I still feel-five-foot four on the inside, I’m learning to accept this tall exterior. Still, I can’t help wondering — how tall do I look in this story?
