Nope, I don’t have heels on.

I have to address this one.  Although I feel it’s a bit of a cop-out this week, there are a few people who will appreciate this topic, so here it goes.

I’m 5’10.  There’s even a slight chance I may be 5’11.  It took me 22.5 years to accept my height.  Growing up, I tried my hardest to avoid anyone noticing that I was taller than everyone.  Rec Soccer in the first grade meant lining up by height to kick the ball.  I’d crouch down or hunch when the photographer lined everyone up for class pictures.  I’ll never ever forget the one time I escaped the back row.  I was in the 5th grade, and we were having pictures taken before a skating show.  Amidst all the chaos of hairspray and costume malfunctions, I was able to squeeze, unnoticed, onto the end of the bench in the first row.  I felt like I had won the lottery.  There I was, all dressed up in my sock hop outfit, boot covers and all, beaming smile through my braces.  It was a brilliant moment.

As the years progressed and I approached middle school, I was certainly in for it.  Now not only was I tall, but I hit the all too well-known awkward stage.  I convinced my mother to cut bangs, my braces were off and thought my teeth were too big, and I’d only leave the house wearing a t-shirt, Umbros and blue Gazelles. (for those that aren’t familiar, Gazelles were the ugly stepsister of the old-school Puma/Samba sneaker)  I looked like a telephone pole with feet. 

School dances.  Picture if you will the telephone pole with sparkly Lip Smacker and a dress on, dancing with the SHORTEST boys in my class.  I insisted on having heart-wrenching, tear-producing, over-exaggerated crushes on these shorties.  I wish I could say that it was because ALL the boys were short, but that wasn’t even the case!  What I would give to go back in time and snap a candid photo of myself swaying away to “Nobody” by Keith Sweat with a boy at least a foot shorter than me…priceless.

Fast forward to age 22.  Hi, welcome to the bar scene.  We hope you enjoy yourself.  Which I did, and I still do, despite the fact that the height thing comes to the bar with me whenever I go out.  It’s like all of a sudden I’m 13 again except I have a Bud Light in my left hand and a debit card in my right.  Most of the time I make it to at least a half hour before the first incident.  They typically happen in one of 3 ways:

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Idiot #1.  At the bar ordering drinks.  Leaning over 5 people who are sitting/standing/holding up the bar and unwilling to move, contorting your body to an unbalanced forward stance and pathetically grasping your cash or card in the air trying to be as polite as possible as you get bartender’s attention.  Because you’re not right up at the bar but still somewhat separated from your posse, you must seem approachable to idiot #1.  Out of the corner of your left eye you see the donkey is shorter than you. (shocking!)  Don’tmakeeyecontactdon’tmakeeyecontact.  That works for a few seconds. 

“Hey, you’re tall.  Did you play Basketball?” 

Nope.  haha.  (haha = shut the hell up before I palm your face)

“Yeah right.  You definitely played basketball.  I bet you were SICK.”

No, I didn’t.  I actually suck at basketball.  I played other sports though.

“For realss though.  I’m sure they have leagues you could play in around the city.”

You have a yourself good night now.

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Idiot #2.  You decide that since you love wearing heels, F it, you’re wearing heels tonight.  Up, up, 6ft.  The air is nice up here.  Right around Bud Light #5ish, you hit the dancefloor with your friendies.  Woot.  You’re having a great time, but your little Kevin Rudolph – Lil Wayne jam session is interrupted.   Idiot #2 walks by:

“Well ain’t you a tall drink of water.”

::insert fake, no teeth smile::

“And heels on too!  Whoa.  Good for you.”

::you consider joining the circus until you remember that guy is an IDIOT and he’s a foot shorter than you to boot::

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Idiot #3.  This is more of an action than a comment.  You get the idiot who does a slow little side bend and head tilt combo that looks like he’s auditioning for America’s Best Dance Crew, peering down at your feet.  Put the kabosh on this one, right away:

Nope, I don’t have heels on. 

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Though I may seem pretty bitter, I promise you that this is all laughable sh*t at this point.  I’ve finally embraced my height.  I’m okay with being a floating head in the back of pictures, and it’s actually really sweet to be able to see everything that’s going on in a crowded area or bar.  I also get to lead the way most of the time because I can easily scope out empty spots to post up at, keep a look out for shady characters and warn people of possible red bull vodka spillage.  It all works out in the end.

I’ll still never forget how amazing it felt to sit in front row of that skating picture.

editor’s note:  I’ve finally realized that getting angry when this happens to you doesn’t change the fact that it’s GOING to happen, especially when you encounter an outspoken male who happens to be shorter than you.  I used to get really angry and even reply “Yeah.  Well you’re short.”  Doesn’t help.  Laugh it off.

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