I lost an inch.
In one of life’s mysterious biological events, I lost an inch in height. If you’re already under 5’10 this falls somewhere between a swollen bursa sac and a meteor wiping out your Martha’s Vineyard hideaway.
I discovered this troublesome fact at my doctor’s during a routine exam when his nurse asked me to get on the scale. After my weight was dutifully noted, (I reminded her to subtract a full pound for sneakers) she checked my height, using the extending bar placed on my head. I told her I’d been the same height for years. Just the same, she said, let’s check.
She announced my height in inches. You must be mistaken, I told her, perhaps because there’s not as much hair.
This is your height, she insisted. I begged her to interpolate the missing hair onto my height. She refused, explaining as one grows older the spinal cord shrinks as it loses flexibility. I shook my head in denial, demanding she record my old height in my file. She said I was insecure. I said nonsense. She insisted my stubbornness stemmed from me not wanting to be shorter than certain people. Nonsense, I said. Women, especially, she countered. No, no, no, I replied.
I explained that a person’s height is part of his identity. You just stole part of who I am. I want it back and I’m not moving from this scale until I get it. She eyed me coolly. You want accuracy, she snarled; take off your sneakers with the inserts. She knew these things added half an inch to my height. She was evil incarnate. I meekly stepped off the scale.
Between pattern baldness, proliferating hair on my shoulders, shrinkage, and general sag, by the time I hit my mid-sixties I’ll resemble a mutant cactus. Yes, I’ll be the one lurching down the street frightening your kids. – Joe Del Priore