It’s official…I’m on a fast track to Midgetville

The average American woman is 5 foot 4 inches.  I don’t like to be average in any regard.  It’s never really been my style.  I’ve always been 5’7”-ish.  A few times in volleyball in high school I’m pretty sure I was listed as 5 foot 7 and a ½.  I was cool with that.  Although I always felt jealous of my mom and sister and their long legs that needed tall jeans and the fact that they had an inch or two on me.  If I could’ve had a say in my birth blueprint, I definitely would’ve been six foot on the nose.  My family and Molly like to tease me about being short because they know it drives me crazy.  I like to fight back with the fact that they are all just freakishly tall.  My mom’s side of the family are seriously like German giants.  See picture below.  The two boys are my “little” cousins that are still in high school.  Six foot five or some crap like that when they were 12.  I mean, come on!  Throw me a bone here. 

Well, yesterday my short complex was put in a tailspin.  I went to the doctor and when she measured my height, the nurse says, “okay, five-five-and-a-half.”  I freeze.  Excuse me?  She reads back 66 ½ inches.  I smile, tell her I’m five seven and make her try again.  Alas, it reads the same.  And this is with tennis shoes on!  The room seriously started spinning.  I couldn’t believe it.  This was the worst news ever! I’ve shrunk 2 inches!  Ok, not the worst ever! I mean, I was there to make sure that I don’t have lupus so that would’ve been way worse but still, this was a serious blow to my ego.  I mean, I’m down 90 pounds and 50 some inches around.  I never took into account I was two inches shorter as well.  Maybe their tall meter measuring device was wrong?  A girl can hope and I will call for a rematch next time I’m around a tape measure. 

Things I always had going for me growing up even though I was fat?  I was tall, blonde and had beautiful blue eyes.  At age 35 I’m short, brunette and have terrible night vision in those baby blues.  *Sigh*  This morning when I got out of the shower I realized it’s okay.  I’m still taller than the average woman.  Way taller than a gymnast or jockey.  And I will always tower over my little Norwegian aunts on my dad’s side of the family. And I guess, just like my weight, height is just a number on a different scale.  It doesn’t define me.  No matter how many inches vertical I am, all I can do is stand tall and proud.  That’s right, my name’s Lyndee and I’m five-five-and-a-half. Boom goes the dynamite!