A Life On Tip-Toes

 I'M SHORT. I may be clever, dumb, ugly, pretty, fat, thin...but before anything, I'm short. And somehow, everyone, from the makers of shelves to the flowers on trees, refuses to acknowledge the existence of short people. The result? A life spent on tip-toes. I've forgotten the combined feeling of taking something from a height and having my heels on the floor. I've become so used to craning my neck to see stage-shows over the head of The Invariably-And-Annoyingly-Tall Person in front of me that I'm surprised I don't resemble a giraffe already. I'm also used to the feeling of being surrounded by huge things, to the question: 'Wait, you've grown SHORTER??', to people looking down at me, to the incessant pleas of my mother to 'grow taller' (basketball, skipping, hanging myself from the ceiling-not by the neck, I think-the suggestions are endless)....

What irks me, though,  is that so many others are taller than me. It drives me mad, thinking that getting something for them does not involve the Olympian long-jumps that I've perfected over the years. That they get to be the Invariably-And-Annoyingly-Tall Person in front of Perpetually-Pissed-Off Short Persons like me. That they will always have a bird's eye view of the world. That 'tippy-toes', for them, will always be a quaint phrase to read about.

Which is why seeing a tall girl sporting vertiginous heels is the last straw. The violence that such a harmless sight (it isn't as if it's a guy with jeans slung low enough to make it purposeless...but that's another story) inspires in me is frightening. I want to menacingly growl at her: "Don't push your luck, darlin'...." As if their spindly legs and mile-long spines weren't enough! They strut around, these girls, as if they were born in those killer heels, while naturally deprived people like me are forever confined to measly ol' flats due to a total lack of balance. A cocky "I'm proud of my shortness--I don't have to disguise it!" attitude barely hides the pathetic fact that heels would kill me. A fall from one of those things could break my precious-- albeit maddeningly short--legs. The only solace is the image of the Heel-Sporting Gal as an old woman, hobbling along on bunion-ridden feet, with knees worn out from years of trying to support unnaturally inclined legs. And how she'll wistfully stare at an older me, briskly walking past her on well-preserved feet. Ha! Short, but safe--sounds fair enough...

Right?!