Spring Break
Size doesn't matter all that much
Amy Simpson/ Associate News Editor
Issue date: 8/30/05 Section: Opinions
As the offspring of a man and woman who are barely 5 feet 6 inches and 5 feet tall respectively, you can probably guess how I made out in the way of stature.
With the exception of a short stint of towering over my third-grade class at a height of about 4 feet 6 inches, I've always looked up - literally - to, well, pretty much everyone. Shorty, halfpint, shortstack, little one, vertically challenged and (my personal favorite) ankle biter are just a few of the endearing monikers that have been repeatedly seared into my memory over the years. I've also been likened much more often to Maggie rather than Lisa Simpson, even now that I'm nearly 20 years old.
But growing older has taught me that nicknames and cheap shots are the very least of my worries. Now I have real problems, like not being able to drive my car a safe distance from the steering wheel without pedal extensions. Seeing over the hood is even a bit of a challenge at times.
Inconveniences have been a part of every job I had in high school. From juggling large stacks of ice cream cones while trying to fill the cone racks at Dairy Queen to begging for assistance in filling ice machines while working at a movie theater, I've had to count on someone pushing 6 feet tall to come to my rescue.
Work uniforms were another problem. I always had to have a rubber band on hand to tie up the slack so to not trip over the knee-length polo shirts we were required to wear. To this day, I cuff up the pant legs and shirt sleeves of everyday clothes not because it has been a trend at the height of fashion, but because I don't know the first thing about sewing and wouldn't think of piling my entire wardrobe in front of my dear sweet mother for her to hem. Although, with a slightly larger time commitment, the scraps might make lovely new attire for my 5-year-old cousin.
Like many college students, I, too, love music. At concerts, I can usually be seen jumping up and down sporadically to the beat of a good rock song. But, unlike many college students, I do this because otherwise the concert would be no more exciting than listening to the radio in a large group of sweating, wriggling, bellowing young enthusiasts.
With the exception of a short stint of towering over my third-grade class at a height of about 4 feet 6 inches, I've always looked up - literally - to, well, pretty much everyone. Shorty, halfpint, shortstack, little one, vertically challenged and (my personal favorite) ankle biter are just a few of the endearing monikers that have been repeatedly seared into my memory over the years. I've also been likened much more often to Maggie rather than Lisa Simpson, even now that I'm nearly 20 years old.
But growing older has taught me that nicknames and cheap shots are the very least of my worries. Now I have real problems, like not being able to drive my car a safe distance from the steering wheel without pedal extensions. Seeing over the hood is even a bit of a challenge at times.
Inconveniences have been a part of every job I had in high school. From juggling large stacks of ice cream cones while trying to fill the cone racks at Dairy Queen to begging for assistance in filling ice machines while working at a movie theater, I've had to count on someone pushing 6 feet tall to come to my rescue.
Work uniforms were another problem. I always had to have a rubber band on hand to tie up the slack so to not trip over the knee-length polo shirts we were required to wear. To this day, I cuff up the pant legs and shirt sleeves of everyday clothes not because it has been a trend at the height of fashion, but because I don't know the first thing about sewing and wouldn't think of piling my entire wardrobe in front of my dear sweet mother for her to hem. Although, with a slightly larger time commitment, the scraps might make lovely new attire for my 5-year-old cousin.
Like many college students, I, too, love music. At concerts, I can usually be seen jumping up and down sporadically to the beat of a good rock song. But, unlike many college students, I do this because otherwise the concert would be no more exciting than listening to the radio in a large group of sweating, wriggling, bellowing young enthusiasts.
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