I’m small. Really small. Somewhere between 5″1 and 5″2. And by that I mean 5″1. Jesus. You people.
I hate being small to be honest with you. I hate not being able to see as much as other people in crowds, I hate it when people think I’m sweet by simple virtue of my stature (I’m not; they soon realise), I hate it when I get IDed in for tobacco, I hate it when I have to get the attention of some oversized man who, at some stage, will peer down to say something like: ”you’re very small”, as though this fact had escaped me for the last 32 years. Yes, my friend, I’m very small. At least I am not very stupid.
However, all of this aside, there is very little I can do about my diminutive frame and, despite holding out until – until about last week – for an unexpected science defying growth spurt, all that’s left is for me to come to terms with it. And I’m using the following tactics to do so:
Inspiration
Yesterday the Suit alerted me to the fact that Shakira, who I adore for her orphanage building, honest hips and feisty shake, is but 4″11. 4″11. I know. Then there’s Madonna who skims in at 5″3, only slightly taller than the excellently proportioned Ms Minogue, at 5″1. These women are powerful, successful and beautiful. These women have not been defined by their height; they have grown far beyond it. These women fucking rock. I like them.
Common sense
When I was little. Shut up. When I was young, I went with my Dad to the doctor. It was important because he was involved; normally my mother carted us off to the homeopath and we discussed whether or not we preferred to sleep with our feet covered or not, then took a few sugary pills and went home to get better ‘naturally’. I digress. There I was at in the Doctor’s surgery with my dad. The two men looked at each other and then my dad nodded towards me: my daughter is very short, he declared. The Doctor concurred and suggestions were considered. They involved hormones and up to half a million English pounds. Dad is from Yorkshire and, looking me up and down once again, declared: you’re not *that* short. And we left.
He’s right. I’m not *that* short. I could be shorter. I could be SHAKIRA. And being restricted by my height will only ever be something I choose to do myself.
Except for theme parks. You know? The ones with that fucking bunny and his bendy ear when you’re a kid. If you don’t stretch past the ear, you don’t go on the ride. Stupid fucking bunny.
Taking a chill pill
And above all this, above all the ‘if only I could be something other than I am’ mentalities which seem to poison so many women in our society (thanks Kate, lovely job), I can just take this one on, take a deep breath and stop freaking worrying about it. Because there are so many other more interesting things to think about. And, anyway, 5″1 is clearly the new now. Actually, fuckit, it’s the new tomorrow. I’m taller than Shakira, and Shakira rocks.
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