Tell No One

          My mother was talking to a friend the other day and she said she never tells anyone she has had a heart attack.  People treat you differently when they know, she says.  I think she’s onto something.  I’m not going to tell people I’m short.  It makes them treat me differently.  I don’t want them to know.  Vertically challenged people are discriminated against. 

     Listen to me now.  The thermostat is at a level where I can’t even see the numbers.  No wonder the house is always either too hot or too cold.  And the buttons on the microwave—Amazon height.  Ever notice that the short people hose are at the tip top of the rack and the queen size Amazon height hose are at the bottom?  Who came up with that brilliant plan?  I don’t let anyone see me step up on the bottom shelf in the refrigerator section at the grocery store.  How else am I going to reach the last carton of milk that is on the very top shelf?  The check-writing shelf at the bank—giant level.  That’s double jeopardy now that I can’t see up close without glasses.  The check is right under my nose.  And at the library—might as well bring a spyglass to check out the books on the top shelf there.  Thank goodness for cell phone banking and Kindle books. Stretch those screens to suit you!

     See the short person wiggle from side to side in her chair at the movies?  Her feet don’t touch the floor and the circulation in her legs has been cut off.  That’s me, trying to restore blood supply to the lower extremities.  But I tell no one, because they will treat me differently.  Only the guy that I stopped to ask if he would hand me a box of trash bags off the top shelf at the super home store.  He won’t remember though—he had a new power drill in his hand and a smile on his face.