Downsized

I was downsized not long ago.

No, it wasn't that kind of downsizing, even though I do live in Northern California.

I went for an annual physical to a new doctor. In addition to the standard weigh-in, my height was measured. And I was brought low. Made small. Shrunk.

I said to the nurse, cheerfully, "Oh, this should be fun. I haven't been measured in years." I was actually looking forward to a definitive ruling on my height. Five-eleven and change or the full six? This was the question I wanted answered.

This was not the question that was answered, though.

It's just been in the last, oh, five years or so that I have come to embrace my full height. As a kid, I never wanted to be the tallest, even though I frequently was. And I grew a tiny bit more in college, topping out at nearly six feet tall. OK—let's be honest. I'm six feet tall, or so I thought. I used to hedge over that last quarter-inch—is she or isn't she?—but I got over it somewhere in my 30s. That seems to happen with a lot of things when you hit your 30s. Funny how that works.

So the nurse is measuring me, and she says, "You're five-nine and a quarter." I laughed out loud. "I'm six feet tall," I said to her. She sighed. I noticed she was considerably shorter than I.

"OK, let's try again. This time, stand up straight." Yes, ma'am. I stood up straight.
"See, you got another half-inch. You're five-nine and three-quarters."

No friggin' way. I sighed back at her. "There's just no way," I said.

"Well," she said, clearly growing weary of me, "I'm writing down what I've got." There would be no more recounts. Then she wondered whether I'd had a back injury. No. And, OK, whatever. Move on.

But it amused me and it bugged me.

I ride a 58cm bike. My legs go all the way to my chin. I am a classic short-torsoed rider, a bit of a hard fit. I am constantly battling floods with the pants in my closet, and let us not even discuss the dilemma that long-sleeved shirts can pose.

In the interest of full disclosure, I'll also admit to big feet. Feet that are, in fact, slightly bigger than my husband's and the same size as those of my publisher, who didn't believe me at first and grabbed my foot just to be sure.

But it's all in proportion—if I'm six feet tall.

So this is the part that amused me. Sure, I'm five-nine and change, but I've got these size-12 gunboats at the end of it all. And if I'm only five-nine and change, my legs must really be freakishly long to be causing me all these pants problems all these years.

Then, the part that bugged me. Suddenly, I felt smaller. More ordinary.

Over the years, once I got over constantly slumping down to bring myself in line with the shorter boys in junior high and wearing flat-soled shoes in high school for the same reason, I'd come to accept and enjoy my height. It's one of the things that is fixed in my world. I will always be taller than most women and many men. (I had a great friend and running partner who was a former college basketball player, and she was 6'-3". We would run in the early-morning darkness and I know I feared nothing. I mean, come on: Who's gonna be fool enough to jump us? That may have been dumb, but there it is.)

I called my husband and told him the news. "No way," he said. I called my mother and told her the news. "Impossible," she said. "That girl measured me, too, and told me I was 5'-8". I'm 5'-10", we all know that. I may be shrinking these days, but not that much!"
So I felt a little reassured, but my world-view was being rocked. I felt vulnerable, average. I didn't like it, not one bit.

I had to get my height back. I needed somebody to tell me that I was the tall person I've always been.

'Cause here's the thing: Everybody has something about their appearance that separates them from the rest of the world. You know what that thing is about you. Maybe you have dark hair and blue eyes, a striking and rare combination. Maybe you're shortish. Maybe you're tallish. Maybe your feet are big, or small.

Maybe you have a big, beautiful nose like the great, handsome French actor Jean Reno—a nose that used to horrify you as a child but that you now have come to terms with. (Because believe me, Jean Reno is one heck of a package, what with that nose and those soulful eyes.)

But what if you had a Jean Reno nose and one morning woke up to find it replaced by, say, a Kevin Spacey nose. An ordinary nose. Bor-ing, you'd say. Give me my old honker back!

I mean, being tall is no big deal. I come in handy for people who want to get things off the top shelf. I don't worry if somebody sits in front of me at the movies, but I always, always check behind me. I rarely have to look up at anybody; usually I'm looking folks square in the eye.

A few days went by. I realized I couldn't wonder too much longer because it was really gnawing on me. I walked into the office at our gym. I said to the nice trainer, "I see there's no way to measure your height on the scale outside, and I'm wondering if you can help me." I told her my sorry story, and she laughed and said she'd be happy to. Our equipment was lower-tech, but the results—ah, the results!

Five-eleven and change, baby. Just like always. I was a new woman. I walked out of the gym with a spring in my step.

Everybody has their thing. Whatever yours is, you better love it. And don't ever try to take mine away.

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