1. It's kind-of an unwritten rule of being short: it's okay to complain to others about your lack of height, but before you do, have a good look around you. If you see one person in the room shorter than you, keep your damn mouth shut. When I hear a girl complaining to her friends that she is short, and she's hovering at around 5'4, I can't help but to shake my head. How does she think I feel down here, eye-to-eye with elementary school children? In the same vein, however, if I was complaining about my height, and a little person overheard, they would probably be like "Sit your ass down, Yao Ming". It's all relative.
2. Fuck yes I want you to grab that shit off of the high shelf for me. Do you think I enjoy scaling the creaky-ass shelves at Safeway to get at my canned tomatoes? Do you get some amusement from standing two feet away from me and watching me struggle? I'm talking to you, surprisingly tall old lady. You may have fourty years on me, but you also have ten inches on me, so reach up and grab me that can.
3. Sometimes, people are just short. There's no use in asking if I started smoking young (I didn't), have a lot of short people in my family (I do, but I am the smallest), or ingested a huge amount of aspartame when I was little (hey, it was the 80's- nobody knew that Diet Coke was a real growth-stunter yet). When it comes to being short without having any form of dwarfism, I am the creme de la creme, so when they start the breeding process, there's going to be a shitload of little Sarah Parsons' running around. Get ready, world.
4. People always rip on me for being so specific about my height (4"10 AND 3/4), but when you're this tiny, that 3/4 counts. Most of the time, I lie and say that I'm 5", which makes people ask waaay less questions. Either that, or say I it in centimeters (150 cm). For a metric country, Canadians understand fuck all about metric conversions for height and weight, so once those wheels start turning in everyone's head to figure out my height in inches, it's pretty much guaranteed that there are no further comments.
5. Yep, there are restrictions:
-I counted down the day until my eighteenth birthday, because I was sure it meant I would never get carded at the bar again, but that just stopped about three months ago.
-Your umbrella is probably going to poke someone's eye out someday.
-I can finally go on that roller coaster at West Edmonton Mall, but only because I am now old enough to sign a waiver that says that I am aware that the seats are not for people of my stature, and that if I go flying out that it's my own damn fault.
-Pants. If you are really tall and you remind me that pants are also difficult for you to buy, you can go straight to hell. Tall folks can just cuff pants in that casual, sassy way, and nobody knows the difference. When I roll my pants, it's just a giant fat sausage of material. I have a good tailor, but ain't no tailor in the world that can make the knee part of a slim pant leg look like it's not sitting at the lower part of my calf. I have a 26 inseam, and no sane pant-maker has ever attempted to make pants that short. It would be me and Bruno Mars buying that shit, and that's about it. "Just buy capris!", they say, "and wear them as pants!" Clever, if it weren't for the fact that capri pants haven't been commercially available at any store that doesn't have "-warehouse" in the title since 2002.
-Sun visors in cars? Why bother.
-The biggest affliction among my tiny peers and I is, without a doubt, a condition called "tired little legs". You see, folks, for every step you take, we take two, or three, or four. However, though we may be tired, do not dream of trying to pick us up. We hate that the most.
In a world catered to small people, there's not a water fountain spout too high, a chair that makes your legs dangle off the ground, or an inseam too lengthy, but until then, can you just stop patting me on the head and reach that damn can for me? Please?
~sarah p.
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