Yesterday, I followed a very tall woman from my parking garage into the office elevator. Dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, my guess is she was in her late 50s. Very little make-up, a short conservative hairstyle. She caught and held my attention because of her erect, proud posture and her elegant long stride. And she was wearing very high heels.
In high school, I felt certain I would be happier if I were just 3 or 4 inches taller. In 1965, at 5’7”, British supermodel Jean Shrimpton was one of the highest paid models in the world. In 1966, at age 16, Leslie Hornsby aka Twiggy was named “The Face of ’66” by the UK’s Daily Express and, the following year, Mattel came out with a Twiggy mod fashion Barbie. Twiggy was 5’8”. James Bond girl, Diana Rigg, was 5’9”. To me at an optimistic maybe 5’4”, perfection was several impossible inches out of reach. And someone else, whether real or imagined, always looked better, had a better body, better hair, better skin, and, truth be told, just plain had to be better.
With age comes wisdom or, at least, experience and a lot of observation. As we crossed the breezeway between the garage and the building, I pictured this tall woman as a young girl and made some quick assumptions that maybe growing up tall was not without its challenges. It takes a while for the boys to catch up to the girls and maybe it was tough being taller than the boys. Maybe it was hard to find pants and skirts the right length. Or was being tall the norm in her family, so there was never a point in her life where she stooped or slouched or wore flats because her dance partner’s head barely reached her armpit.
I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. It was absolutely none of my business and it was arrogant and intrusive of me to make such assumptions about a stranger with whom I just happened to cross paths. But I was drawn powerfully to this brief encounter because it instantly evoked so many of my own insecurities and indelible memories of wanting to fit in, to be noticed but, at the same time, to be invisible. I felt a strong connection to this statuesque woman who carried herself so beautifully in those lovely high heels.
Just the two of us got into the elevator and, in that small intimate space, the difference in our height was even more pronounced. I couldn’t stop myself and turned to her and said, “I really admire how you own your height – and even accentuate it with your heels.”
She did a quick inhale, paused briefly and, as she stepped out of the elevator, without looking back at me, said, “It’s taken me a very long time to get here.”
Why does it take so long to be comfortable in our own skin?
vivinolavita 