Forget that multiple studies have been done about how tall people are perceived as more confident, more powerful, and occasionally more intimidating. Forget how there are VOLUMES of research on how taller people get jobs more easily, are promoted sooner, and never had to skim the dowdy, middle-aged racks of Petite Sophisticate when they were 15. (okay, maybe that last one was just me)
I thought of YET ANOTHER reason why it's better to be tall(er).
Tall people don't have to stare at crotches on public transportation. Plain and simple.
I was sandwiched between Sir Tall Guy and Crazy Tall Amazon Lady this morning on the bus. You think I'm exaggerating, but I'm really not -- my head just barely met their shoulderblades, collectively.
When the bus filled up, I had an epiphany. Of course, it was brought on by this incredibly disgusting guy standing in front of me-- you know the type: pleated navy Dockers, a weird plaid short-sleeved shirt, coke bottle glasses, and a cell phone that rings to the tune of "ode to joy." And OF COURSE, he spent the entire commute scratching the everloving hell out of his balls.
(Hi mom! Yes, you taught us the technical terms, but "balls" sounds better than "scrotum and testes." Also, do I really know exactly which part he's scratching? NO! And I wouldn't want to judge a stranger, because you always taught us to be open-minded and accepting as the day is long. Thanks for that, by the way - hey, did you know that I call you Sally Field on this blog?)
When I'm seated on a bus, or train, my head is directly in line with the crotches of those people who are standing in the aisle. GOD FORBID I forget to pack myself a book, because then I have no choice but to stare out at whatever is in front of me. Tall people aren't forced to stare at...ahem, all of that. They at least get a good view of buttons, or pocket protectors, or perhaps a cute handbag!
What is even more depressing is that when I don't pack a book or magazine, I should be thinking about how I can help the homeless, stop the killings in Darfur, create the next "it" drink for Starbucks (and name it after myself), or perhaps pen the next great American novel...but I'm distracted by all of my involuntary proximity to the nether regions of complete strangers. But we won't talk about my inability to focus on something worthwhile, because that has nothing to do with my height.
Or lack thereof.
Not like that button down helped. Thanks, Mom.
Interestingly, I remember those earrings specifically -- they were from Claire's and were the biggest earrings my mother would allow. Good thing I paired them with that shirt - it clearly needed to be spiced up.
This is my fake smile - the one that is supposed to be hiding my anger at arriving to school with my hair in a ponytail and FORGETTING IT WAS FLIPPING SCHOOL PICTURE DAY. (I had a habit of doing this...that is why you don't see my sophomore year photo here. Yikes) Anyone with naturally curly hair knows that once you put your hair up? It's up, sucka. Also, I was attempting to hide my braces. Go Huskies!
Somebody needs a cocktail.
