“You’re the two Ss really, aren’t you? We should call you S’n’S”. S and S? I’d heard of R and R but this was a new one on me. “You know, short and single!” Oh right, charming. Once again I was reminded of the two aspects about my life that seem to bother other people more than they do me. I won’t reveal who said that as he was horrified when I informed him that had those comments been aimed at someone who was deeply affected by those “afflictions” it could be deemed offensive.
So let’s deal with the two Ss shall we? The two factors of my life that other people have an issue with. I’m the good, little Hindu girl, I’m twenty-nine years old and I’m single. There, I said it. Sorry to those of you who winced at the word. And the idea. As I’ve said many times before, being sans partner doesn’t trouble me in the slightest. That’s not to say I dislike being in a relationship, I do like it, but people’s reactions to my singleness is bizarre!
At a work gathering recently, I was sat with two female colleagues who were talking about how their relationships with their partners were about compromise and sacrifice. “But that’s all relationships, surely?” I piped up, “Whether they be with family, friends or partners we find ourselves in give and take situations with those we care for.” I was given the look that all attached people give; the “pipe down dear, this doesn’t involve you singletons” look. I’m sure you’ve all been privy to it at some point, perhaps having even shot the look at a single person yourselves. The look doesn’t bother me any more than being single does as the way I see it is that I’d rather be involved with the right person, whenever they come along, than the wrong one. We all feel like that I believe, it’s not only singles’ desire.
I was made aware of my singledom at a friend’s barbeque a few weeks ago. Not that being made aware of it affected me negatively at all. I arrived at the barbeque with a single male friend and aside from him and the host I knew nobody. All attendees were incredibly friendly and chatty and all topics of conversation were covered. You know, the normal getting to know you having met you two hours ago type of stuff. An hour or so after the food had been consumed it was time to kick back on one of the million picnic rugs laid out on the sizeable lawn. That’s when it hit me; most of the others were part of a couple! The reason it hit me then is because at this point of any gathering couples gravitate to their partners. Only for about ten minutes of affection but it does happen. They had all snuggled up for a squeeze of the hand, a kiss and a cuddle or to rest their heads upon their partners’ laps as they grabbed a quick snooze. This behaviour doesn’t bother me. I can deal with couples’ public displays of affection up until the point they start sucking face and getting too touchy-feely. There’s no need for those kinds of actions in polite company. Anything that might make an outsider to the relationship feel uncomfortable needs not happen. Anyway, so whilst the couples shared their moment of affection (and I sat their alone - single male friend had found another single man to discuss football with, oblivious to the couple-magnet happenings) I played with my iPhone and updated myself on the goings on in my trusted Twitterworld. And then the female half of one couple asked why I wasn’t sat with my boyfriend. What boyfriend? Aah, the assumption that because I’d arrived with a guy, we must be stepping out. You see? It seems to bother other people more than it does me! That’s how I was made aware of it. I wasn’t offended by it as I’m easy either way. I understand our whole purpose on Earth is to procreate and the emotional side of that means that we seek companionship. But I’m comfortable waiting for companionship to find me rather than seeking it out; is that cool with everyone else?
The thing I know for definite bothers everyone more than it bothers me is my height. By no stretch of anyone’s imagination, not even a seven year old’s, could I ever be considered tall. The aforementioned seven year old is taller than me. But I’m fine with that. I stand at four feet and eleven inches. A fact that doesn’t escape anyone I meet and that most feel the need to comment on at some point. No, I’m not considered a midget and don’t have a disabled parking badge for my car. It may surprise you that I raise these points but they are questions I have been asked in the past so I thought I’d clear up any confusion before it arises. I’m the product of parents who are five feet three-quarters of an inch and five feet eight inches tall. I was never destined to be a giant and that’s ok with me. I grew up being reassured that “small is beautiful”. I’m not quite sure who they were reassuring as I certainly didn’t need it – I don’t mean that I was sure about being beautiful but rather small.
I admit that being short (or horizontally challenged or whatever the politically correct term is these days) does have some disadvantages. The first is that some people taller than me think it an affectionate gesture to pat me on the head. I am not a child or a dog, despite my appearance. It is not therefore affectionate and acceptable, it’s ruddy patronising! Please don’t do it, even to be funny. Imagine if someone that could reach did it to you – it’d get annoying, right? Not because of the height thing but because everybody knows you don’t touch the hair. It’s almost as irritating as a friend of a friend greeting me with the same line every time we meet. It’s not a “hello, how are you?” as that would be most pleasant. No, it’s a “God, you’ve shrunk!” Funny the first few times, granted but after the millionth it becomes tedious. To me that “joke” is what the Crazy Frog song is to others; fucking irritating.
A lot of females resent me at some point of knowing me, even if only briefly, for being my height. I often hear the line, “You’re such a bitch, can’t you go for a short guy so us taller girls don’t get stuck with the midgets?!” I don’t set out to snare men that stand at five foot ten inches or taller, it just kind of happens. Actually, none of my boyfriends have been shorter than that. Well, there was one but he refused to acknowledge we were together - one of those “we’re just friends” types. I didn’t do with my other male friends what I did with him. I still don’t - so he doesn’t really count anyway.
I get overlooked. Literally. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been in a bar and two people, whether I’m there with them or not, have conducted a conversation over my head. It’s just plain rude! That has nothing to do with me having issues about my height, more people’s inconsiderate nature.
The most disadvantages were discovered when travelling on public transport. I have an hour long commute to work during which I experience the delights of South West Trains and the London Underground. I get on the same train every morning; the 7.39 from a sleepy West London station to
The other peril of commuting on the tube is the most dangerous of them all; armpits. I don’t have to tell you how this body part perspires and can be smelly. At my height on a packed carriage my face is often subjected to several armpits at close proximity. More often than not, on the journey home, after these armpits have been in suits and kept warm all day, they don’t smell as fresh as they did in the morning. I’ve become expert now at holding my breath, only inhaling when we stop at a station and everyone shuffles about a bit, sparing my visage of Eau d’Aisselle for a few seconds. Talking of breath, my diminutive stature often means that when people exhale or sigh on public transport, as often happens out of frustration at delays, I get breath on me. Yes, it’s as gross as it sounds. Imagine a stranger’s morning stale cigarette and coffee breath on you. Time and time again. And in the lifts at
However these disadvantages are far outweighed by the pluses. Firstly, protesting innocence is hardly ever necessary. It’s effortless to avoid blame. “She couldn’t have done it, look how little she is!” Ok, this attitude can also be very patronising but it keeps me out of trouble. The cute factor also plays in my favour when in public as everybody wants to help, in supermarkets especially. There was this one time when I was trying to reach a cereal carton on the top shelf but it was a fruitless tasks as even stretched on my tiptoes I was merely stroking the front of the box. As a tall(er) guy walked down the aisle towards me he saw the struggle and came to my aid. We chuckled at the height difference and he then walked around the supermarket with me for about ten minutes, even getting things for me that I could reach. So chivalrous. His wife wasn’t happy when she finally caught up with him but that’s not the point.
Being short endears me to people. I pose no threat as the worst I can do to anyone is jump up and bite their ankles. As I’m very tactile, people don’t feel I’m invading their space when I do stroke their arm or go in for a hug. It’s impossible for me to loom over someone. I guess people figure that as long as they have a clear area in front of their faces and they’re not inhaling my armpit scent, they’re safe.
I don’t know if being little has made me louder and a bigger personality than I would have been if I was taller. Perhaps I subconsciously compensate for lacking inches by raising decibels when laughing or cracking jokes and surrounded by friends? I guess we’ll never know. What I do know is playing the damsel in distress comes naturally because of my height, or rather the lack of it. In fact, I need someone to get a mug down from the top shelf in the kitchen cupboards at work, so now to flutter the lashes and work my petite charm. Who’ll oblige? The usual suspects? x
