You see, since I was 14, I had been telling people that I was the nice, clean height of 5'8". Sometimes I would joke about it around my short friends who reported their own heights to the quarter of the inch, saying that mine could be off by an inch or two. Little did I know that I had jested myself. Indeed, on that fateful visit to the doctor's office, the doctor told me that, no, I was not 5'8"-- in fact, I was off by more than an inch. She told me I was actually 176.4 cm, or about 5'9" and a half. And in that moment, I fell into a extreme, overwhelming sense of existential despair.
None of the friends that I anxiously texted with my discovery understood the commotion-- yes, I was tall. Yes, I had been an inch and a half off from my actual height. But what was the hulabaloo about? What was that extra inch and a half, especially since it didn't change the basic fact that I was tall? To that, I say: everything.
5'8" is a really nice number. Even before I was conscious of the fact that I was tall, I was conscious of the fact that my favorite number was 8. Eight is even, whole, and aesthetically pleasing. "Five-eight" rolls off the tongue with linguistic flair. And it was just the right amount of tall to me-- enough to be taller than average, but not enough to make "tall" my defining physical characteristic.
5'9.5" has none of these traits. It rolls off the tongue like a glob of crunchy, expired peanut butter and is a bit too close to 5'10" for my liking. It makes tallness part of my identity I'm not sure I'm ready to accept. It also explains the reason why even when I followed the sizing guidelines for pant lengths, most of which said that "normal" lengths ran from 5'4" to 5'8", they were still too short for me. At least that mystery is solved.
By now, some of you may be thinking, "Oh come on, Kathy. Get over it. You should be grateful that you're tall." To which I would say: the grass is always greener on the other side. I would know, because with my height that makes me a colossus, I can peek over the fence rather easily. And on that side, the wondrous, magical side of being a normal height, pants always fit (or can be cutely cuffed), people can see more than your seemingly decapitated head in group photos, and it's never assumed that you can play basketball. I am not good at basketball. I just want my ankles to be covered when I wear sneakers in the fall. I want to be more than a floating head.
I have to say there is one silver-lining to being tall: people tend to assume you're more mature than you actually are. The applications of this benefit are wide and varied. For example, starting from a pretty young age, adults treated me with more respect, older kids let me hang out with them, and people generally assumed I knew what I was doing, even when I really didn't. Truly, being able to walk around alone in stores without employees asking if I was lost did a lot to boost my sense of independence (except when I really had to pee in Barnes and Noble).
Even now, for someone who intends to pursue a legal career, I imagine the extra height could come in handy. All I would need is a pair of 3 inch heels to effectively tower over 89.6% of the American male population, and hopefully have at least one societal advantage to win the judge's favor. I'm sure my clients would appreciate that.
Of course, even this benefit is not without its setbacks. Looking back on one particular incident from my youth, I probably should have realized my absurd height at an earlier age. I was walking into my local CVS to buy stamps for some thank you notes-- it was late June, and I had just held a party for my 16th birthday.
The lady at the counter greeted me warmly. She sold me a pack of stamps. Then, as I took the receipt and put my wallet away, she saw the stack of notes I had in my bag. She smiled, gave me a knowing look, and asked,
"Wedding invitations?"
