Smallman

Memoirs of a Small Man I'm one inch shorter than my wife. We found this out before we conceived our daughter. It took her a while to get pregnant. We saw doctors. They measured and weighed us. When you stand five foot five, all women stand five foot four in their stocking feet or else they wear heels. It has to be the heels. Both of you agree, until the measuring stick touches the top of your head, or the nurses want a laugh. I am glad for every inch I have. I remember nervously standing under the ruler when I was eighteen and having my precollege physical. My father who is one inch shorter than I am took me to the doctor. He begrudged the time off from work, but neither of my parents trusted me much, and my mother and I were on the outs. The plump, big, motherly nurse who measured me laughed that time too. I smiled. I had grown -- two inches in the last year of high school. I kind of suspected it. I had been to buy pants because I was sick of wearing floods and did not want my mother bringing home my clothes. She could do that to my brother, but not me. It had been that way since I was old enough to complain about her taste or lack of it. My father said it was part of my "artist phase." I just became visually aware. That's all. It's a useful skill. It helps with women, sometimes. It is especially useful now that I have two daughters. Girls are expected to be visually sensitive and aware, and I can speak with them on their own terms and do small things to make them happy. Sometimes this works. It works better with daughters than wives or girlfriends. I'm not sure why. So, back when I was eighteen, I knew I was taller, not that I would ever be tall or large. If I were female, I would have been dainty or petite, but there are no good words for a small man. The only good word is "sexy," which is nearly always repeated in hushed tones by a woman old enough to give up her fixation about wanting a big boy. Usually she is smaller. Laurel was the exception, but I'll get to her, but usually the women who have called me sexy are smaller themselves, and want a man whom they can look in the eye, a dance partner who is easy to embrace. They are tired of "staring at belt buckles" and standing on tip toes to kiss. The reason small men are born is that smaller women like them, and the genes for short height make it into the new generation. Biologists call this assortive mating. Now, Laurel is different. She is not small. She says she is average height. To me she is willowy, tall, and graceful. She has dark blonde hair, sometimes frosted, and blue eyes, amazing eyes, a very straight nose. My mother did not approve of her. That doesn't tell you much. My mother did not approve of Maura either, and Kinneret, our daughter positively frightened her. That doesn't tell you anything. My mother is the jealous sort. But Laurel fell in love with me. I think I still love her, but the love has turned into an achiness, and worry. It was a deep concern the second time I was measured as part of the testing for fertility. I had tried reassuring Laurel. I explained that my mother had taken over a year to conceive me, and several years to conceive Menashe, my younger brother. Sometimes you just have to wait it out, but Laurel hurt with wanting. Physical things had always been perfect for her, well not really, but she thought of them that way perhaps. She was crazy with longing for a child. I did not mind the idea of a third child in my life. We could afford it. I remembered that Maura had not been nearly so crazy, but both of her children happened, as if she'd ordered the conceptions from L.L. Bean, but Kinneret came from my sperm. More to come soon...