A Tall Tale: I Might be a Giant By: Kim Elsham, Jayplay assistant editor
I am 22 years old, 6-foot-1 and am afraid to wear high-heeled shoes for fear that I may tower over my dates or even worse — my 6' 4" father.
It began when I was in middle school. I had always been taller, but puberty hits the middle school hallways like a plague and all us girls shoot up over the boys. It's a scientific fact that prepubescent girls are taller than boys, but in my situation it was ridiculous.
I think my father directly influenced my insecurity. I love the man, but when each dinner ended with,"OK, Kim, let's go measure you," I freaked. This was a daily occurrence in which I would reluctantly walk to one of the two wooden support columns separating our kitchen from our family room, remove my shoes, turn and back up to the column, slightly slouching so as to show my father that no, I had not grown since the day before.
I always feared the marking: my father squinting at the top of my head as if to check for lice, brandishing a freshly sharpened No. 2 pencil, and the horrible scratching sound of lead forever engraving the dense oak column. I remember telling my middle school friends that I wish I could remove at least an inch from each of my limbs to make myself shorter.
My mother told me that she and my father always had a hunch that I would be tall. Apparently, when they would map my height in my baby book, my measurements were always off the normal scales. She also told me that my pediatrician had told them to double my height at age two to predict my full height. I was 36 inches tall when I was two years old, so let's do the math: 36 times two equals 72 inches, exactly six feet tall. Damn, right on the button. Stupid doctors.
I remember my driver's permit from eighth grade: Birth date: 11-25-81; Eyes: Brown; Hair: Brown; Height: 5' 10". Huge. For the longest time I could never admit that I had finally hit 6-foot. I always told the Department of Motor Vehicles clerk that I was five-foot-eleven — for three years I was 5-11.
Sure, height was great for sports. I was a fabulous basketball player (if I do say so myself) and a pretty good front-row hitter for my high school volleyball team, but the gymnasium was one of the few places where I found my height to be a blessing. In every other aspect of my life, it was a curse. Try finding pants with a 35-inch inseam for a reasonable price. Thank God my mom can sew and let out the hems of all my pants.
Here are my three favorite height-related lines: "Do you play sports?" "Can you reach that for me?" and my all-time favorite, "You should be a model." Sorry everyone, but the average model is 17 years old, 5-11 inches tall and weighs 115 pounds. I am none of those things.
Some people say that I'm lucky and that they wish they were as tall as I am. I guess I do appreciate being able to see over crowds at concerts to seek out my friends, the bathrooms or the bar. Being a head taller than the majority of the audience makes me feel less claustrophobic. But that does not make me feel normal. My perception of normal is skewed. My 5" 8" mother and sister are short to me. Bathroom mirrors only reflect my chest — I have to hunch over to see if there is food in my teeth. Bathroom doors reveal my identity to people waiting for a stall the moment I stand up.
The only time I feel comfortable with my height is with my father's side of the family — "the Great Danes."
About seven years ago the Elshams congregated in Minnesota for a family reunion. Being of Scandinavian descent, Danish specifically, we're a tall bunch, and I have never felt more at home. I only have boy cousins, the shortest of which is six feet tall. When I walked into the typical country club banquet room for the reunion, my mother told me I said, "Wow! I feel normal!"