I once found myself at the student health services building while attending the University of Missouri. I don’t remember why I was there and I don’t remember why they would have measured me, but I DO remember that I rang in at 5’7″. I remember feeling very proud about my height, because I had recently read an article (probably in Sassy magazine) that said something like “The minimum height for a model is 5’7″.” Don’t get me wrong. I never thought that I was fit to be a model. BUT, I liked thinking that if the world turned upside down and “socially awkward pear-shaped girls who stare at the floor and fall down a lot” became The Thing, my height would work in my favor.
This Proves How Strange I Am: After measuring in at 5’7″, if anyone ever asked my height (at doctor’s offices or pizza joints or on the streets, et cetera), I would answer with 5’6″. It felt like I was bragging if I admitted to being the minimum height for a model. “I liked The Communards before they were popular. I just forfeited a piano scholarship because 7:40 is entirely too early for me to drag myself to a composition class. I’m the minimum height for modeling.”
Last week I had to have a bunch of pre-op blood drawn. Before they stuck me, they measured me.
Nurse: 5 feet, 5 1/4 inches.
Me: No. 5 feet, 6 inches. (But really 5 feet, 7 inches. Because I’m the minimum height for modeling.)
Nurse: No, it’s 5 feet, 5 1/4 inches.
Me: Write down what you want, but I won’t accept that as truth.
The normal size of a uterus is said to be 8cm x 6cm x 4cm. This means I’m going to be even shorter next week.
At this rate, I’ll probably be 4 feet tall in about 3 years. And that’s why I need to start wearing heels. And that’s why I just added these shoes to my list of wishes.
Supposedly, Michael J. Fox is 5’5″.
Supposedly, Shakira is 4’11”.
Everything is going to be alright.