Let me tell you a SHORT story.

This content has been archived. It may no longer be relevant

Pic: “So. I’m short. What’s your problem?”

OK, so there’s no other way to say it. I’m a midget. Not a politically correct, medically diagnosed person with dwarfism. I am just a short-arse. At exactly 153cm (or about five feet) tall, I am not a very menacingly, intimidating figure in a dark alley way. Not that I hang about in dark alley ways. I’m much too old and scared for that sh*t. It’s been suggested to me before (on more than one occasion) that I should consider a part time gig as a human cannonball in a circus. I would have been all for it, but the travel wouldn’t fit in with my current lifestyle and I can’t find that old, pink Stackhat helmet that I used to own. Safety first, kiddies. No helmet? No flying midget. Yeah, I’m a party pooper.

There are some good things about being short (I’m still trying to think of some other than tall girls are jealous of you – grass is always greener yada yada…), but there are also a few drawbacks.

You can never find your stepladder at home. You need it for everything, but you can never remember where you stored it last. Is it in the carport, the spare room, the shed, the last place you had to use it? I’m forever yelling out to my husband, “Where’s the stepladder?!!” I can’t change lightbulbs with ease, paint the top half of any room, see my favourite bands playing live unless I’m in the front row of a dangerous moshpit, or hold my ten month old Little Mister without looking like I jumped up onto him (he’s verrrry close to half my height already).

Everywhere I go, everybody says “Wow – he’s huuuuuuuuuge!”

Unless my husband is holding him. Then he’s apparently seemingly less gargantuan.

Last month when my husband turned the big 3-0, I…er…had to call my brother on the day of his family birthday barbecue, because I hadn’t got any candles for the cake and everyone was supposed to turn up at our house in a few short hours! My brother was all like, “What? You haven’t even got candles yet? Surely that’s a basic task to master for a birthday party!” (but not in so many words – it was more the vibe of it).

My reply?

“Um…I tried already three times at the local supermarket – no joke – I went back on three separate days, but the candles I wanted (those big-arsed embarrassing 3s and 0s) were on the top rack and there was nobody to help me get them down. I tried jumping and even contemplated climbing the flimsy bottom shelf, but it just wasn’t happening! Help!”

By then my brother thought I was an imbecile, but that’s besides the point. Being vertically challenged is tough!

I’ll admit that it’s great always being able to wear heels without towering over all of my friends, but it’s difficult if I just wanna dress all casual in my flats. I turn up to an event and all I can see is stomachs or chests. Ever spent a whole evening trying to converse with tall people at a cocktail event? You have to pack painkillers for your neck. And everyone wants to use you as an armrest (so hilarious – it’s almost as hilarious as when someone asks a tall person how the weather is “up there” or if they play basketball). I mean, no-one’s ever made that joke before…

It’s also apparently some kind of stupid pick up line. The amount of times (OK, 2) that I’ve been told, “You’re so short – can I buy you a drink” or “You’re too short for a place like this”… is ridiculous. I mean, really?! It’s not like I was hanging out at the Big ‘n’ Tall shop! Also, STOP LOOKING DOWN MY TOP. OK, so no-0ne looks down my top anymore, except my husband. Partly because I am not as well endowed as I was pre-baby (I can hardly even be bothered with false advertising) and partly because I’m wrapped up like a babyproof eskimo this winter! But you other short people know what I mean. That used to be the worst. THE WORST!

Clothing is annoying too. 3/4 pants are full length. 3/4 sleeves are full length. Arm holes are too…holey. ALL TROUSERS AND FULL LENGTH SKIRTS MUST BE SHORTENED AND WE ALL KNOW I CAN’T SEW FOR SH*T!!!

Also, I found out that you start to slowly shrink from the age of 30. Luckily I’ve got a couple of years (unlike my husband bahaha), but it’s not looking good for me. I also heard that your feet and ears slowly continue to grow all your life. I am going to look like a hobbit by the time I get a seniors card. You can call me Bilbo Baggins. Meh. I haven’t even read that book or watched those movies. I just “get” popular culture. That’s how cool I am…

Anyway, that’s my life. I guess I’ll just keep wearing short shorts, travelling short distances and enjoying short films.

As it’s the end of my post, I will wave goodbye to you. But you won’t even be able to see me. LOOK DOWN! I’M DOWN HERE!!