You're SHORT!

There are those critical moments in life when some one thing wakes you up to everything else. One of those moments was me shouting "YOU'RE SHORT!"

I was a freshman in college doing my duty to froshes everywhere by supporting my fair share of celebratory events. That night I was celebrating with two friends. One, Marianne, was tall, willowy, moved like a fairy, and had long feathery hair. The other, Cary*, was short, solid, moved like an aerobic dancer and had long molasses hair. They stood side-by-side in front of the room-wide bathroom mirror which reached from the top of the sink to the ceiling. They were dressing for the night's event. Attempting to look somewhat similar, they murmured and adjusted their clothing looking intently in the mirror. Cary was copying Marianne. Marianne was offering soothing suggestions. Cary was getting red faced and lumpy. She pulled and twisted and huffed and puffed.

"Why can't I get this right?" she said. "Why can't I get this to look like yours? I’ve got it just like yours but it doesn’t look like yours."

"Maybe if you ..." Marianne offered some sort of suggestion, gently twisting something with her long delicate fingers. Her reflection glanced over at me, a tiny smile on its face.

I stood behind them in the doorway, watching.

"You're short," I said to Cary. Her head was down as she made adjustments. She didn't hear me. With Marianne’s help she went on tweaking and adjusting, making unhappy noises and getting thoroughly frustrated.

I tried telling her again. Still no response. Finally, I held onto the door frame, leaned into the room and shouted with all my being, "YOU'RE SHORT!" Echoes reverberated off the mirror and around the stalls.

All activity stopped. I froze, thinking I had ended yet another friendship. Cary looked at the mirror and then at me.

"You know, I am short, aren't I?" Looking back at the mirror she continued with all kinds of positive comments like, "No wonder this doesn't fit me like it fits you. No wonder I can’t get this to hang like yours." And so on. Friendship saved.

The semester ended. We all went home for the summer. Next fall I had new roommates. I ran into Cary who looked amazingly different. Her hair was short and curly (naturally, apparently, when not dragged down by the weight of length). Her perpetual sour expression was replaced with a sunny smile. She wore granny glasses and carried a pile of papers.

"Come see my place," she said with a bounce. I promised to stop by. A group of us turned up for a tour. Cary had redone her room entirely in modern fussy Victorian. The walls were a deep, somber purple. Curlicues on the radiator were picked out in gold. Elaborate crown molding was also picked out in gold. The furnishings were custom painted to match the walls. Ancient eyeglasses and writing materials were placed strategically as if the owner had just walked away. The whole thing was like an elaborate set for a modern Victorian adventure movie. I was amazed.

Cary had found her calling in life - to run her own decorating business - all because I had yelled at her. She had stopped trying to be like everyone else and became herself in full.

Some days I wish someone would shout at me. I say things and do things and see reactions and wonder, “What am I doing really? Why can’t someone tell me what it is I’m doing?” I could use an epiphany right about now.


Current Fads
Listening. Memory Almost Full, Paul McCartney and Deep Sleep Every Night, Glenn Harrold; air conditioner
Watching. High Fidelity (2000)
Activity. making a career move
Gadget. cell phone
News Source. Google News
Reading. Small Gods - Terry Pratchett; Voices of Recovery: A Daily Reader; Style Weekly; Mensa Bulletin

*This is not her real name. Not because she needs protection. Because I can’t remember her name. Sorry, “Cary.” If you read this, please comment!