I’ve always been tall. I hit my full height of 6’1″ before my 15th birthday. But there are moments where I look at a group photo where I’m standing beside average-height women (and men, for that matter), and I’m still startled to see just how much taller I really am.
If you walk down the street with me, you will notice the up-down-up stare pattern of passersby. First, they look at my face, I think to confirm that I really am a woman. The second look is always at my feet, presumably to see if I’m wearing eight-inch heels; this second look has made me somewhat self-conscious about my footwear and my pedicure. The third look is back at my face, and is typically accompanied by a curious stare. Some of the more forward souls try to start a conversation with the most inane opener ever: “Boy, you’re tall!” I’ve always wondered what they expect me to say in response.
I was always the tallest kid in the class picture, even going back to kindergarten. I always found it ironic that as the tallest person, the one who couldn’t avoid being noticed, I was the least interested in the spotlight while the shorter girls clamored to be the center of attention. Previous bosses have referred to me as “the tall, quiet one.” I never had to be boisterous to be noticed.
I was deeply entrenched in my 20s before I realized the power of my height, when it occurred to me that I can change the entire dynamic of a business meeting simply by standing up. Sitting in a corporate lobby, waiting for a first meeting with a client or hiring manager, I can tell a lot about the person and the interpersonal dynamic simply by watching their reaction as I stand to shake their hand and make my introduction.
I’m not ashamed of my height. I own an equal number of three-inch heels and ballet flats. I’m just well aware of the effect that it has on people. Maybe that’s why I found my voice in writing. When reduced to black text on white paper, I know that it’s my mind, and not my height, that makes me stand out from the crowd.