Life in the Short Lane

It’s not easy being short. At 5 feet and a quarter, I am constantly shadowed (literally) by my almost 6-foot younger sisters and my father. I used to be one of the tallest kids in my class, and maybe if things had gone the way they were heading I would be. But my mother and I have learned to adjust. For example, the Blind Soup Grab in which the cans in the pantry are stacked above your head so you reach for one blindly and hope it’s not cream of broccoli. Or the scaling of the book shelves to reach the DVD’s and then there is the great Pilates worthy stretch for the mousse in the bathroom cupboard. It’s not only at home either. The other week, my search for cheap martini glasses to use as party favours brought me to the glass isle of Dollarama. Of course, being the dollar store and 9 o’clock on a Friday night, there was no one around to help me. Every nerve in me was tensed for the great crash I was sure would come as I stretched as high as I could to reach my prize, always careful not to use the shelf for support. My efforts thankfully were rewarded and I left unscathed, glasses in hand. Life in the short lane has its perks though. I can wear heels (my “chocolate”) without worrying about low-flying aircraft and there’s room at the end of my bed for my two Build-a-Bears which, at nineteen, I am probably too old for anyway. In the end I am happy the way I am. Maybe I’m missing a few inches vertically and maybe I have a surplus horizontally, but I’m OK with that. In the words of Dale Griffith “I like me”.