Short in Stature, Tall in Tone
"Hop on the scale, we have to weigh and measure you," said the nurse. She kept her nose in my medical file when she gave the order and didn’t note my tremble.
It wasn’t the reading of my weight that terrified me. After a lifetime of dieting (skip birth to age 10), for the past half dozen years I’ve held steady at 104. Poundage was not the problem. It was the ruler she was about to pull up, then down, then down again, to measure my height.
Not surprisingly, as we age, we tend to lose height. That’s not a big deal if one starts off lengthy, or at least average. But, when this writer hit her tallest at four feet eleven and a half inches, then steadily slipped a few, it’s not a number she wants to advertise — even if the only audience is the doctor’s framed diplomas, prescription pad, and the uniformed autocrat.
After measuring me, the nurse threw the ruler back up for the next normal-sized patient and entered my height in the file. She didn’t announce; I didn’t ask, for I knew that at the last exam, the number was four feet nine inches. I couldn’t bear to hear it lower.
That scene isn’t the only humiliating reminder of my lack. My 14-year-old grandson lives in Los Angeles. On early visits, he and I would line up, tush to tush, and he’d gleefully report, "I'm almost as tall as grandma.” We have long since ceased the game; he has towered over me for the past several years.
My 8-year-old Boston granddaughter now eagerly plays match-up. “Almost there,” her mother (my daughter!) reports. The girl smiles widely, I slink off.
I fear the inevitable comparison with my 2-year-old Los Angeles grandson. Currently, he races through the house showing off his talent to be upright and agile. But there will come a time when he’ll be begging Grandma to measure up.
I suppose I should be accustomed to my skimpy height and its consequences by now. After all, I’m 72; have always been the shortest in a group. Early class photos are evidence: first row, first seat, and feet barely touching the floor.
In the world of work, I recall two instances when my height caused a problem.
The first was in 1980. As a press aide for the mayor of the City of Chicago, Jane M. Byrne. I was stationed at a ceremonial event, some ribbon cutting or unveiling. Along with distributing press kits, my job was to fend off reporters poised to attack Mayor Byrne with questions the moment she stepped from her limo. Her car pulled up. I extended both arms to my sides trying to push back the crowd of reporters. But it was as hopeless as stopping a wall of rushing water.
Television cameramen, photographers, reporters with their microphones thrust before them, easily pushed me aside and descended on the diminutive Mayor.
Back at City Hall, I overheard her tell my boss: “Don’t send Elaine to events anymore. She can’t handle it.”
It took 20 more years before height again affected job performance. For a lark, I took a seasonal job at the Gap. Denims there were stacked to the ceiling: classic, boot cut, wide leg. Size two all the way up to fourteen. Thousands of blue jeans piled one on top of another. If my customer was a tiny two, no problem, but anything heftier, and I had to turn to another salesclerk or customer.
"Could you please, would you mind?" I would gesture helplessly. And with a chuckle, they would comply.
Fortunately, in my current public relations business, with the majority of my activities confined to office chair, and communication via the Internet, my size doesn’t hinder performance.
Once though, when I lunched with a new friend that I had previously conversed with via email, upon meeting me, she exclaimed, "You’re so short!"
Embarrassed at her gaffe, she quickly recovered,"You sound tall on the phone and even in your e-mails."
I smiled, thrust my shoulders back, looked up and reached for a hand to shake. As I pumped her palm, I conjured the tall image she had imagined of me. "Thanks," I said. "Nice to meet you, too."
©2011 Elaine Soloway for SeniorWomen.com