I’ve been tall since … well, birth. In the third grade I was taller than my teacher. By fourth grade my shoe size was bigger than my mom’s. In the sixth grade there were only 3 students in my entire school taller than me. By eighth grade I had grown all but ½ inch of my full height: five foot 11 inches.
With the exception of when I go pants shopping or try on skirts intended for short people that don’t cover my tush, I don’t pay much attention to my height anymore. Back when I was cruising for boys I was obsessed with it. I would walk into a bar and immediately eyeball the top of the crowd to assess how many boys were my height or taller. This was my minimum requirement for dating. I developed a sick skill when I was younger of being able to accurately say the height of anyone. I was constantly disgusted by the number of boys who would tell me they were six foot and yet were distinctly shorter than me.
When I met Wonder Boy, who has me by an inch or two, I calmed down with my height obsession. Except in one area: Hugs. I’m not sure if short people realize how awkward it is to hug them. It’s not because I have to bend over, though I do. It’s because my chest is right in their face! And Wonder Boy’s family is full of tiny-statured huggers. I’ve tried to incorporate the fist bump or wave into farewells but it has yet to take over the hug.
This Friday is a Facebook-deemed “Hug a Tall Person Day.” (According the internet, the holiday falls on June 5th.)
On the one hand, I think it’s an awesome holiday. It celebrates height rather than making it a peculiarity. And my tall friends? I’d happy hug them and it will be all nice and normal. But tomorrow, should anyone actually celebrate a holiday based on the whim of some social media participant, I expect to put my bosoms in someone’s face. It’s just how it goes.