My driver’s license says I’m 5 feet 11 inches tall. Occasionally, however, I like to tell people I’m at an even 6 feet.
Measurements have shown I’m somewhere between the inch marks, so I figure, how can it hurt to do a little rounding up?
Height, for whatever reason, matters to a lot of us. Children enjoy outgrowing their parents. Grown siblings stand back-to-back to see who has the height advantage. Women sport heels to gain a couple of inches. If your family is anything like mine, you know what I mean.
Grandpa shrinks a little every now and then, but the kids, they’re always growing.
Those of us in between those demographics tend to stay the same, or so I thought.
On Easter, several of my relatives started asking me if I had grown. They said I looked taller. I said, “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I’ve been done growing for a while now.”
They checked out my feet to make sure I wasn’t wearing shoes. I assured them I wasn’t wearing multiple pairs of socks. They kept insisting I was taller. So, I decided, I must’ve grown. Why not? It wouldn’t hurt my feelings any.
I could’ve gotten measured then and there, but I figured, why ruin it? I’ll just go on believing I’m taller.
There could’ve been a logical explanation for my perceived height increase. Maybe Grandma spiked the Easter punch. Or, maybe, when I’m not around, my family likes to remember me as a younger, more innocent version of myself.
It doesn’t really matter, I guess. If anyone asks, I’m an even 6 feet tall.