By: Marci Shatzman
I used to be 5’5” in high heels. Now I’m just 5’2”.
“What are you doing down there?” mostly men who tower over me ask if they haven’t seen me for a few years.
One of my least favorite things about aging is the loss of my spikes. Now I’m confined to flatties, and I can’t even look someone in the eye anymore unless they’re short or a kid.
Every pair of slacks I own need hemming. I have to buy new ones sized for petites. I was never petite. So, I’m constantly drawn to taller women who I still wish I could be.
My Dad was short for a man and my mother was tall for a woman. She wore low shoes her whole life and looked the same size as him in photos. They never complained about their height difference. But I know I’m not alone in my neurosis about my size.
My husband started out at nearly 6 feet. Now he’s 5’9”. When he was measured for our medical plan a few years ago, he was sure that must be a mistake. It wasn’t. He still talks about it. I don’t blame him.
So we apparently have to learn how to take shrinking in stride. It’s another “welcome to our world” given.
“You might even become a bit shorter,” the Mayo Clinic mentions in its “Aging: What to expect” online advisory.
What do they mean “might?”