Adult in Training

My entire family is short.  Not just my parents, but all my aunts and most of my uncles as well.  So when I was growing up, I was basically surrounded by short people all the time.  And, being a girl, I had my growth spurt fairly early, which meant that for a little while I was the “tall girl” in class.  Most people who know me today would not believe it, but there is at least one school photo that has me standing in the back row.  The point: These are the reasons I often forget that I’m the shortest person I know (who isn’t twelve years old).

The day I realized that I was no longer tall – that everyone else had had their growth spurts, and that theirs was much better than mine – I was at the hockey rink.  And it was pointed out to me that I was the shortest defenceman on the team.  By a lot.  I was, by hockey standards, a midget.  I had never really paid all that much attention to the fact that everyone I ended up facing off with was taller than me.  I made up for that fact by being meaner than them.  It was a system that worked for me.  If I couldn’t always move the big girls out of the way, I used some tricks to make their height work to my advantage.

Since that time I have pretty much continued to surround myself with short friends.  The only exception is Ashley, but she’s been my friend for so long that I couldn’t really find it in my heart to hold her height against her.  She’s never tried to use my head as an armrest. 

Needless to say, since I am still surrounded by like-sized people, I forget sometimes that I’m actually below average height.  I mean, sure, my pants are usually too long, but I also wear them really low. I’m still tall enough to ride all the rides at amusement parks.  The only time that I frequently feel lacking in the height department is a work.

At work I’m the only girl that still works with boys doing the construction-type jobs.  Almost all the boys are taller than I am.  They’re all stronger than I am.  I’m basically kept around as a mascot – and to keep them on task, since for some reason they seem to have the attention-span of a flea. So while all the boys are heaving around heavy things, and grabbing things off top shelves, I get to “supervise”.  Because even when I try to help the boys (and by boys I usually mean men that are over the age of thirty-five) they are so worried that I am going to hurt myself that they won’t let me near anything.  So instead, I get the midget jobs.

I get the jobs that require climbing or crawling into small spaces.  I get the jobs that require climbing through and around obstacles in order to retrieve something – as long as that something isn’t too heavy.  I get the job as the “caboose” whenever a skid is too heavy for one of the guys to pull by themselves.  I basically get the jobs you would give your little sister when she tries to follow you around, and your mom makes you let her.  I think part of the reason why is because I have the uncanny ability to injure myself doing the more ridiculous things.  Probably because I don’t have the best control over my body.  And about half the time that I try to help, I just make the boys’ job harder, because the spend half the time worrying that I’m going to do something retarded.  Like the time I was beaten up by an outside fireplace that I tried to stop from falling.  Instead, it knocked me on my ass, in front of all the boys, who almost beat me themselves for doing something that stupid.

In the end though, I like being short.  I think I would make a terrible tall person.  I never really grew out of that awkward phase that usually accompanies a growth spurt.  I still don’t really know where my body is in relation to the world around me.  And there’s not that much of it to keep track of.  Add another couple of inches, and instead of being the awkward short girl, I’m pretty sure I would become the dangerous tall girl.