Wallowing in a patch of uncharacteristic introspection this week, it occurred to me that many of my greatest problems in life could be attributed to my height.
And before I go any further, I would like to state for the record, to all those people whose heads are closer to the ground than they would desire, that I have no hidden malicious intent towards anyone.
I’ve always harboured a secret desire to be around 6’4”, with legs up to my armpits – one of those head-turning Amazon women who could, if they wished, pirouette into a room in their underwear with elegance. However, I’m more of the variety on whom a mere kilogram of excess good living picked up during the festive season can transform from a reasonably-sized human to a wobbling female impersonation of Humpty Dumpty.
These feelings of inferiority have recently been exacerbated by the incredible growth of my two oldest sons, who now look down on me, usually with a supercilious expression tinged with sympathy. Admittedly, they remain marginally intellectually inferior on account of my advanced years, but it is still very difficult to yell at someone from an upside-down position. I’m not sure if this is what has brought on my current abnormal feelings of aggression, but I’m sure my therapist would say that had something to do with it all.
And adding insult to injury, is that there is simply no term to describe the feelings of inferiority suffered by short women. Blatant sexism, if you ask me.
There are even dictionary definitions to describe the emotional state of men who feel they are too short. “Short man syndrome” is, in pseudo-scientific terms, the phenomenon of appearing overly aggressive, assertive or needlessly bumptious as a reaction after repeatedly suffering height discrimination in the workplace, in relationships with women, or elsewhere during socialisation.
In other words, angry vertically challenged men are allowed to behave badly in an attempt to gain respect and recognition from others and compensate for their abnormally short stature. Women, one assumes, are expected to take their petite place in society with the usual stoicism with which they accept all other iniquities, such as having to shimmy up supermarket shelves, put up the hems on every single article of clothing they buy, and needing a ladder to reach the top wardrobe shelves.
Indeed, life can be difficult when one needs to climb trees in order to be seen. Male politicians know this and have perfected the art: those with seriously vertical dilemmas have designer, craftily-disguised platform shoes, and tidy wooden boxes, carried around by their personal assistants and placed strategically where they are to stand before press conferences when they are to appear with taller statesmen.
Women politicians, on the other hand, particularly in Africa, appear to feel that if they are vertically challenged, they may as well go the whole hog and do the horizontally challenged thing as well; one presumes they imagine that at least there will be more of them to look at that way.
I have considered all these strategies at some length. It wasn’t quite such an issue when I was still at school and none of my male friends had grown yet. However, university and the workplace produced unforeseen problems, ranging from snide remarks about standing me on a box in order to kiss me, to colleagues suggesting dwarf-throwing competitions in the newsroom.
The final straw was when I was introduced by a former National Party man at a public meeting, after listing my male colleagues and their media organisations, as “the little girl from The Daily News”.
Ah well, at least it wasn’t as bad as the mother-in-law wedding comment to a very short colleague: “What a waste of a tall man!”
It’s all very well to point out that most women want male partners who are taller than they are; what people are inclined to forget is that most men want women who at least reach to their shoulders, without the help of stilts.
But back to the strategies adopted by the rich and famous. Where footwear is concerned, I do tend to go for the heeled variety, but the only problem is that skinny stiletto-type heels take a great deal of practice to walk in. I’ve always been amazed that no one offers courses in how to walk elegantly in ridiculously high shoes. Also, they’re incredibly impractical for a journalist – you try running fast in little black strap-ons with a crowd of angry hecklers after you.
And thick heels just don’t have the same panache as itsy-bitsy ones, particularly if donned with a short skirt or a little black number in an attempt to look sophisticated and impressive.
The horizontal growth in order to compensate for the lack of the vertical just doesn’t appeal to me. Why create extra problems? Besides, there are dangers in being short and overweight, not least slipping on a hillside and doing the unwilling impersonation of a snowball.
As I’m not famous enough for my own wooden box, I guess I’ll just have to stand on a chair when chastising the Teenagers from now onwards. But if anyone has a medieval torture rack stored away in their garage, I’d be grateful if you’d let me know.
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