While living happily in The Land of the Giants (which is a direct English translation of "Nederlands") I was of average height. And it was glorious. And I forgot how glorious it was until I almost stepped on this girl/woman/midget on the Subway. Seriously, I could have eaten this person -- she maybe came up to my belly button. Maybe.
So a few philosophical questions for the week:
Why is New York such a short city?
Am I a heightist?
To answer the later, yes, I am -- not to say that I hate short people (but maybe I fear them...small hands, smells like cabbage), but that I don't uh, proactively surround myself by them (only argument in my favor is Coltrane -- who arguably has his own bedroom in my apartment; that's got to count for at least 3 "Nice to Small People" points). A friend reinforced this for me on Monday: "I felt so short at your party. All your friends are so tall." Really? But she was right -- and a 6'4" chick wasn't even there yet. And, I refuse to date men under 6' (or men under 6' refuse to date me). And I think about sending angry letters of protest every time a mirror is set too short for me to have a full length view (Dear Club Monaco: You sell long pants but have mirrors for people of 5'6" and under. Please get your sh*t together. Love, Stef).
For the former, I have many theories, most of which would involve me ragging on various and sundry shorter ethnicities, including my (1/2) own (lots of short Jews in NY. lots. like, at least 326. in my office building alone). But since that would make me a Nazi of sorts, I'm going to pass.
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