Ya Long Drink of Water

I recently overheard a conversation at my local diner, in which someone commented on a woman’s height, complaining that the “tall bitch” hit her in the head with her backpack on the subway.

As a tall bitch myself, I’ve been guilty of unknowingly knocking a few shorter people around on the subway in just the way described. But not very often. Because at six-feet-five inches since my early twenties, I have long been hyperaware of the space I take up in the world. 

I have almost always been the tallest one in the room and I used to hate it. As a teen I walked around in a kind of “S” curve, hunched over and self-conscious of sticking out. I didn’t play basketball, or any sport that utilized my height to full advantage, and so I often felt like I simply took up extra room in the world with no seeming use.

That is until I went with a friend to watch my college basketball team beat the pants off a rival school. After the game, my friend and I went back to the locker room to congratulate a guy he knew on the team, and standing there among a squad of tall, muscled pituitary cases, two things dawned on me: (1) I was the shortest one in the room, and (2) I didn’t like it.

I felt weak, insignificant, overlooked, and uneasy. I realized in that moment that I actually loved being the tallest guy, and appreciated the gravitas that my height gave me. From that moment on I straightened my spine—along with my attitude—and never looked back.

Overall, people believe it’s better to be tall, and I suppose, overall, it is.

You always have a great view of movies or plays or bands. Unless, of course, when the asshole in front of you at a concert puts his girlfriend on his shoulders. But then, we all have that problem.

Ceiling light bulb replacement is a breeze, and you can reach shit on high shelves. Once, when I was home from college, my mom pointed to the top of her kitchen cabinets and said “Oh, Andy, I’m so glad you’re here. Could you get that down for me?” I got it down for her and then asked what she did the rest of the year when I wasn’t there. “Oh, well, I use a step stool.”

See? Tall people come in handy. Especially if you don’t have a step stool.

But sometimes being tall sucks, and here I’m specifically referring to no legroom on airplanes, fitting (or not) into European elevators, and having to shop almost exclusively at big and tall stores, where the clothes are fine if you love plaid and spend most of your time playing golf. Doorways can be challenging. And statistically, taller people don’t live as long—up to two years shorter than, well, shorter people.

Another thing: because most people view being tall as an advantage, they have no problem making comments—even fairly cutting ones—at a tall person’s expense. I’ve received the standards: “How’s the weather up there?” or “Let me know when it starts raining,” or “Well, aren’t you a long drink of water!” I’ve been called Sasquatch, Goliath, Giraffe, and Frankenstein.

I don’t think people intend to be rude with their comments in most cases, but just as you wouldn’t say “Damn, you’re short!” or “Whew, you’ve really packed on the pounds lately, huh?” you might reconsider saying something like “Out of the way, Yeti, this ain’t the Himalayans!” as some guy once barked while pushing past me onto the subway.

Truth be told I laughed out loud at that comment. I mean, I may be tall, but it doesn’t mean I don’t have a sense of humor.