I'm Shrinking!

(A Sunday Squib for Mother's Day)

I heard a lot about growing older from my mother. She would complain about her ulcer, her arthritis, losing her hair, headaches—you name it.

I listened, but didn’t listen. You know, the way we do when we’re young and none of that seems like it could possibly ever apply to us.

Turning sixty, I started to remember her complaints as I underwent various surgeries, tried to deal with arthritis, struggled with insomnia and other issues despite being a gym rat and eating right. I got it: I was aging and nothing I dealt with was surprising.

However, I recently started feeling like I had entered a horror movie or an alternative universe. The mirrors in my house felt off, felt like they’d been moved. Raised, lowered, something.

They had not.

My head showed up at a different height in every single one of them because I had shrunk. It didn’t seem possible until my next doctor’s appointment where his nurse weighed me as usual and took my height.

I had been 6’ for decades, really for as long as I could remember, just like my brother, but suddenly I was 5’11”—and that was in sneakers. Which meant I was 5’10 (or possibly less).

Now, as early as sixth grade, I was in the back row of the class photograph because I was tall like a few other guys—including the class president. Reflected glory!

I lived years of my life feeling tall. It was especially pleasing since my father was average height and for many reasons, I liked looking down at him (that’s another story).

As if suddenly discovering I was no longer 6’ tall wasn’t bad enough, after surgery last fall on my femur and hip due to a dog attack, my injured leg was 1/4 inch shorter than the other leg. Which meant adding a lift to all my footwear and making an appointment to get new orthotics.

Now that I’ve made the mental adjustment, maybe it’s time for Cuban heels.

Photo by Vitaly Gariev on Unsplash