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Let me clarify: At 5’11”, I know I’m tall. You know I’m tall. So I don’t need you to tell me I’m tall. It doesn’t matter whether I’m meeting a Bumble date or a new colleague, for some peculiar reason, people feel the need to verbally acknowledge my height as if I’ve got something in my teeth and haven’t noticed. For the record: I have noticed. I was the tallest in my class for eight consecutive years. I don’t fit into most bathtubs. And I often walk into low-hanging branches.
But what really tipped me off to the fact that I’m tall is shopping for clothes. Mini skirts and dresses are virtually out of the question unless I want to pull a Paris Hilton circa 2004 and flash some unsuspecting bystanders. All jeans are ankle length, which can get particularly chilly in the winter. And finding a jacket that reaches my wrists is like trying to figure out who Gossip Girl is, and the result is similarly disappointing.
