I’m tall. That’s what people always say about me – that I’m tall. Even people who have known me all my life still find it necessary to tell me. \’You are so tall, Lib. In fact, are you getting taller?\’ they say and then look down at my shoes to see if I’m wearing high heels. \’I don’t think so,\’ I say. When my friend Katrina is introducing me to people, she’ll say, \’That’s Lib, she’s the one who keeps getting taller.\’ I look at them, sheepishly, wondering how I should behave. Should I be quiet and reserved to compensate for my height?
The strange thing is that I’m really a short person trapped in a tall person’s body. It wasn’t until late in my teenage years that I began to grow, by which time my body image was firmly established. I clearly remember my shock the day I discovered that I was tall. I’d spent five years of high school joined at the hip, shoulder to shoulder with my best friend Katrina, until one day at exactly the same moment, we both noticed I was now taller than her. Like a whole head taller. When did that happen? Last night? Last week? It was inexplicable. I sort of shifted around to see if I could settle deeper into my hip sockets, but this newfound height remained. I’d always enjoyed the Bobbsey twins-ness of Katrina and me. Now we were more Laurel and Hardy, and I was uncomfortable with my new role.
My boyfriend was also unimpressed by this unexpected growth spurt. Once I reached his eyebrow level he announced that I was too tall. ‘I like girls to be about this tall,’ he said, indicating the desirable height (up to his chin). Since that was now out of the question, I was superseded by a more compact version.
Being tall was clearly not a good thing. At parties, it seemed to me that all the girls were exactly five foot four. They formed small, girly groups and spoke in conspiratorial tones about boys. I longed for the days when I was the right size to fit seamlessly into such a clique. I was Alice in Wonderland after the growth potion.
After leaving school I slimmed down, perhaps fuelling people’s perception that I was continuing to grow (or perhaps I was continuing to grow). Whenever I bumped into former classmates they’d say, ‘Gee, I don’t remember you being that tall at school!’
In my thirties, I moved to New York with my husband. Before we left Australia, I was put in touch with Allison, the cousin of a friend, who lived there, and we arranged to meet on my arrival. She later told me that I was much taller than she’d expected from our phone calls.
‘How tall did you think I’d be?’
‘I don’t know. You just didn’t sound as tall as you are.’
That summer Katrina (five foot four) visited from Australia. After meeting her, Allison said to me, ‘That’s how tall I thought you’d be – about the same height as Katrina. I thought you’d look like Katrina, as well.’
So not only do I sound as if I’m five-four, but also blonde haired and blue-eyed. How do other dark haired, brown-eyed people sound – and how tall should they look?
Other visitors from home also commented on my ever-increasing height, so I checked with my doctor who assured me I did not have late onset giraffism. My husband said he would have noticed if I’d been growing for the last fifteen years. So what was going on? I felt like one of those visual perception puzzles in psychology text books, where a staircase appears to be continuing to rise, but never gets any higher.
It seemed that despite appearances I was not growing. I resolved not to think of my height as a defect any longer – until the next conversation with my mother, when she cast the T-word in a distinctly negative light. ‘You know how you were always too tall…,’ she said, comparing me to one of her friend’s daughters who evidently was not. I was so dumbfounded by this slight that I didn’t listen to the rest of the sentence. Hitherto terms used by friends and acquaintances such as ‘so’ tall and ‘really’ tall were technically non-judgmental, but ‘too’ tall was unambiguously bad – and that from my own mother.
My niece has always been one of the smallest in her class and very comfortable with her size. In an attempt to protect her from a lifetime of confused body image, I mention the possibility that she might end up being tall. She just looks at me with a ‘so what’ sort of expression.
She’s right, I tell myself. So what! It’s time to accept what the genes have dished out. So although I still feel five foot four on the inside, I’m learning to accept this tall exterior. But still, I can’t help wondering – how tall do I look in this story?