I am short. I am really short. I am 22 years old and only 1,55m tall. My relatives keep mistaking me for my sister, who is eight years younger than me. Your size shouldn’t define you. Size doesn’t matter. Not the horizontal, nor the vertical size. But is that really the way it goes?
“Normal sized” people might think it, but for us shorties it isn’t as easy. No one sees all the desperate moments, when not a single pair of jeans fit. They’re all too long and yet too tight. Who is supposed to wear them anyways? No one counts all the group pictures, in which I wonder if I should stand on my tip toes or rather knee in the front so my height difference won’t be that obvious. No one realises that my laughter, when someone asks “Where’s Lottie, I can’t see her?”, is only to hide my tears. Or that I don’t go to the blackboard anymore because everyone thinks its so funny that I can’t reach its top. Nobody knows how embarrassed I am to admit my height.
At fourteen I changed schools and suddenly realised how short I am. And the next four years were pure agony. My mum and dad constantly had to comfort me because of how I look. My wardrobe got filled with several pairs of high heels, which absolutely didn’t suit me, but at least tried to lengthen me. I spent evenings after evenings googling leg extensions. Yep, you can fix your legs and I was silly enough to wish for it.
My life was good as it was – but the length of my legs made me unhappy.
After that two things changed. I met my boyfriend and started university. Which means that I had to take care of myself, and on the other hand that I suddenly had someone who told me every day that he loves me. Due to uni I had way less time to think about my looks – and I experienced success! I finished one course after another with the best grades and did something, that really made me happy. I found things that I’m good at and that I enjoyed. And I had someone who told me that I’m beautiful. Me. Beautiful. With my short legs that I couldn’t show him in the beginning, as embarrassed as I was. Can you imagine?
It’s normal that I get greeted with “Oh, you’re so short!”, when I meet someone new. At some point I started replying “Short and proud of it!”. At that point I didn’t really mean it yet, but when people smiled at me admirably I slowly started to adopt that thought.
Last week I was yet again asked how tall I am. And I winced – but not because of the question, but because of the fact that I didn’t wince in the first place. Before I feared that question, it made me anxious and I couldn’t answer it truthfully. Today I can say that I’m 1,55 and that it’s fine. Of course 15, 10 or even only 5 cm more would be nice – but it’s the way it is. I’m more than my height. And finally I can see that too.
P.S.: Are any of you girls short? What do you think about your height? I have a lot more to say on that topic – this won’t be the last post about it!