Let's Hear it For the (Tall) Girls

          Last week, after being measured as part of a bone density exam, I discovered I was 5’6” tall.

Huh?  What happened to the other inch that has been the bane of my life since my early teens?  Just where did that little sucker go?  And, for that matter, why disappear now when it’s essentially a non event in my life?

Preparing for my first school dance at age thirteen was the beginning of my tallness trauma.  We had been informed by the headmaster that there would be no wallflowers at the dance.  All boys would dance with all girls in turn, no excuses!

I was mortified therefore, as I was dragged around the dance floor by boys whose eye level was no higher than my chin.  And, since this put their Brillcream plastered down hair right under my nose, I spent most of the night trying not to gag.  I also could have done without their version of hysterical humor.

‘What’s the weather like up there?’ and ‘You married to the jolly green giant are ya?’ spring to mind as examples of their wit.

For years my mother kept assuring me that being a tall girl was a good thing.  I should be pleased.

‘Look at all the short girls who would love to have your height?’

Really?  I wondered who they might be.  Certainly not the 5’2”s who were lining up boyfriends like nine pins while I sat at home and let down the hem of another skirt.  At the time the only advantage I could see was being able to reach stuff on the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet.  Big deal!

As I moved into my later teens and early twenties and started on a brief modeling career, my height became an advantage.  That and the fact that I was a true, skinny beanpole.  I barely weighed more than the clothes I was expected to show, usually in department store parades. 

In those days, runway models were a very much different breed.

It seems that showing a garment today requires a tall, grumpy looking young woman…the grumpier looking the better…who struts down the runway ready to kick an audience member’s face in if they so much as look away or  make a slight comment.  The models usually walk at warp speed so that trying to see any detail on a garment is a lost art and buyers are left hoping they saw what they thought they saw.

I’ve often wondered if the grumpies zot up and down the runway so fast because they actually think the garments they’re showing are hideous and so want to get off and away from audience eyes as quickly as possible. Or perhaps it’s the designers who instruct their models to move so quickly.

‘Really move it. Don’t let anyone see your bum showing through the back panel or we won’t sell a thing.’  It could be the case.

Back in my modeling days, the greatest asset a model had was the ability to glide down the runway beautifully, as though walking on air, taking time to make eye contact with the audience and actually smiling.  The idea was to show prospective buyers how gorgeous that particular garment was and how beautiful they would look in it if they would only fork out the required loot for its purchase. 

However, as I tried to move from local store parades to something a little higher up the modeling ladder, my height once again came into play.  This time because I was lacking in the inches department.  A 5’7” beanpole might be all right for the local stores, but Fashion Week parades or the prestigious Wool Board shows, required at least another couple of inches.  And no matter how much I tried to stretch myself up to at least 5’8’, neither my spine nor my legs would cooperate.  I was doomed to stay at a measly 5’7” for what I thought was the rest of my life.

But, apparently that is not to be.  As the years pile on it appears that the inches of my height sag downwards along with the rest of my bits and pieces.  So you 5’2”s had better watch out.  It won’t be long before I’m at your level and we can discuss what the weather is like down there.