I'm what they call a robust gal. Hardy. Big boned. The word "petite" doesn't apply to any of the assets I embody. I'm broad of shoulder and sturdy in the hips and thanks to a mom who told me to stand up straight, I own every one of my five feet and almost eight inches.
I had to stand in the back row for class photos. I long ago gave over to the knowledge that with these thighs, corduroy was not an option.
Back in college, I danced with short cowboys and took many a brim of a cowboy hat to the bridge of my nose.
After I moved to California, I wore flat shoes for years because I dated a guy not much taller than me. He once cooed over a friend who is teeny tiny, "you're like a little doll!" he gushed. I never felt more elephantine than I did at that moment.
This is the hand I've got to play, dealt by my genetics. Honestly, I've become more sanguine about it over the years.
This brings us to the events of yesterday. I'd been invited to a status update meeting with a VP from my company and the CEO of a large multinational corporation.
In the morning, I dug around in my closet and put together a pretty nice outfit. A meeting like this is big doings, so I knew I had to up my game.
I got dressed and put on my favorite pair of three inch heels. The outfit looked great. Before leaving the house, I asked The Good Man if I was committing a work faux pas.
See...my boss is about 5'9" on a good day, and his boss is maybe 5'6" if the wind is right and he's on the uphill side of an incline.
Is it bad form to tower over the people who pay my paycheck? The Good Man considered the question and decided the outfit worked, and thus all would be ok.
Off I went to work feeling pretty good. The meeting time rolled around and I stepped into the conference room. As I was the only woman in a roomful of nine men, they all rose and walked over to greet me.
Ok, so flatfooted I'm 5'8" and now wearing three inch heels I'm 5'11"
There was only one person in the room who was taller than me. Just one. The rest of these #$%^ing Lilliputians scrambled around somewhere about my kneecaps.
At the end of the day, I was very glad to go home, kick off my tall shoes, stand on tippy toes, and kiss my 6'2" husband.
Because that's the best way to navigate through a day chock full of Oopma Loompa-ish men.
(I might also add that I was only one of two Americans in the room. We had a gent from Hong Kong, a Dutchman, an Aussie, a Swede, a Scotsman, a Russian, an Irishman, a Spaniard, an American from Phoenix...and me.)