This post comes from my lovely wife Ellie, who has been working out and running circles around me for many years!
Jon and I went to the gym together last night to try to work off some of the candy my wonderful sister mailed to me (THANK YOU, BECKY!!). After a half hour on the ellipticals, we got on neighboring treadmills and started our jogs. At one point, Jon looked over at me and whispered, "You're so short!" I nearly fell off my treadmill. Whaaat? No one told me! I had no idea! How had I gone twenty-six years not knowing how short I am?! . . . Just kidding.
I am acutely aware of my height. At five foot one and a half (and I take that half inch whenever I can get it), I guess I'm considered pretty short. But it's never really bothered me to the point of trying to take human growth hormone—except once, when I was thirteen and read about a clinical trial where doctors were giving teenagers HGH to make them taller. I do remember asking my mom if I could volunteer. . . . Besides that, shortness is just like most other things in life you have no control over: you deal with it. Can't reach that Tupperware container on the top cupboard shelf? Climb on the counter and get it! Can't get that container of cookies way up high? Grab a spatula and prod it until you can reach it! Can't adjust the shower head from down here? Stand on the side of the tub! Can't properly slice meat at work because your arms are too short to reach? Get the kitchen stool and boost yourself up six more inches (and endure the jokes from the tall people)!
I can be very stubborn when it comes to admitting I'm short and might need some help. I can't tell you how many times Jon has come into the kitchen to find me walking on the counters trying to find something rather than asking his five-foot-eleven self to get it. (Don't worry; I wash the counters after my feet have been on them.) There are really only a few times and places where my height really gets to me. Concerts is at the top of the list, obviously, but the gym is another.