Walking tall

Confession: I am self-conscious.

About many things, including the usual: stretch marks, pasty skin, crowded bottom teeth. But the most dangerous and ridiculous of all is that of my height.

I have always found tall woman to be striking. They command attention. There’s a reason models are tall. And I have always wanted to be tall, as well. Not so tall that I have to shop at specialty stores like “Tall Girl,” but tall enough to wear 35″ inseam jeans and have one of those long torsos that looks great in a bikini.

But I wasn’t born to be a perfect match for Waldo.

I’m not meant to be a model. So I pretend. I alter my height to a perfect 5’10” or 5’11” when I’m feeling courageous.

Only one time did I not wear heels to work, and I haven’t made that mistake since. I teeter in my high heels rain or shine, sleet or snow. And with this ungodly amount of snow that is stacking up around here, my height insecurity is getting dangerous.

Walking the breadth of our parking lot at work is no easy task, regardless if you’re wearing tennis shoes or stilts. And yesterday, in my stilts across the snow-packed ice, I grabbed on to my very polite co-worker and steadied myself on his arm. It was all very much like the prom march one does in high school, but I’m nearing thirty, wearing jeans, and just trying to go out for a burrito.

Today, Steve took me out to Zio’s. Zio’s is a great Omaha pizza joint, but in their parking lot, you can’t pull up right next to the door – you have to park on the other side of Hollywood video and walk across to get there unless you have a handicap permit. If I keep wearing these heels, I might need one.

And finally, Steve lost it. Steve is a very patient man, so this must have been years of accumulating if he actually said something about it. He says, “Holly, next time we go out in this snow, why don’t you just wear tennis shoes?” oh if only I could. I can go out unshowered or wearing yesterday’s clothes, but without heels? That’s crazy.