My New Home at Home

Life in the Short Lane

To preface the rest of my comments, I should start by saying that I am five feet, ten inches tall. At one time that was considered “average” height. It made my existence slightly better as a young adult to always make sure to always add that I’m actually five feet, ten and a half inches tall. So you see I grew up and started adulthood as an above-average height young man.

Now in a wheelchair, I’m over a foot shorter. In my first chair, I decided to see how I stacked up and measured. The final verdict was four feet, two inches tall, seated. This was annoying, but a little bit fun to make mention of periodically, while in the company of friends. It’s a non sequitur that can get a fair chuckle.

My former and current stature understood, I can get on with the issue for which I brought it up in the first place.

I think the negatives somewhat outweigh the positives, but there are high points to low life. For one, if you don’t want to be noticed in a crowd, you can remain virtually invisible. The give away to the tall person looking for you would naturally be the people exclaiming, “Ouch!” and jumping out of your way.

In most smaller stores, aisles of products are often of medium height, so that a single clerk can monitor the whereabouts of customers. The wheelchair user glides through the store, and unless he comes to the front of the store to go from one aisle to the next, he has become a man of mystery.

With some satisfaction, I will say that clerks with more suspicious natures have been known to follow me in stores. They always try to affect a nonchalant air that says, “Oh, I always stroll the aisles to fight boredom,” or “I'm just trying to be available in case you need anything.”

I know the latter of these affectations isn’t anywhere close to true because anytime I really need something from a top shelf, I seem to be in the store alone.

Though anonymity is an important plus, there is a byproduct of growing down that actually makes the oppressive crowds at public holiday gatherings, carnivals and street fairs somewhat enjoyable. The group of friends with which I usually attend these events is equipped with various types. There are a few that, like myself, fall into the category of too-old-to-be-but-single-anyway. I’ve been given an awesome responsibility in this subgroup. Where tall women in short skirts are concerned, I am supposed to help categorize them as panty, thong, or none at all. This is my job but I’ve never been cad, or man, enough to find out on purpose, although it’s nice of my friends to include me in this way.

At this point in my discourse, I want to focus on the annoying aspects of life in the short lane. I’ve heard it said that short people are the last to get rained on but the first to drown, and this sets a perfect tone for the way I see things.

The way I see things is specifically what I want to talk about. I’m at gluteus maximus level, and even though there are rewarding moments, this is America, land of the obese. I have seen things no man should be witness to.

It is my observed perception that women with larger bottoms, either on purpose or out of sheer necessity, are women with animated bottoms. The ample hips of these women seem to take on a life of their own.

It happened that I was, unfortunately, rolling directly behind one of these ladies. I am not ashamed to say that I was frightened. My fear was that she might stop suddenly, without alerting the media, and it might spell my doom. Only people in wheelchairs and our diminutive brothers, known as Little People, understand these things.

I have witnessed more butt-scratching, underwear-pulling and adjusting for comfort than I could begin to tell. And I won’t even start on whale tales on people who couldn’t carry it off as remotely sexy.

Last but not least, I want to say a word about gas.

At my level, I get it first, and experience its lingering effects last. For a person of height, this situation is annoying or even disgusting. For me, it can be almost deadly. I’ve considered carrying a lighter with me, even though I don’t smoke, to have at the ready for those inevitable moments of gas. I could quickly light up, and there would be a sudden flash where the methane was the most concentrated. Or at least I imagine it that way.

I haven’t mentioned top shelves or clothes closets because of their obviousness, but hopefully I’ve helped you see some of my world.

On a trip to Europe, someone in my family handed me the video camera. There is a whole five minutes on the streets of Salzburg in which you see nothing but sightseers’ butts. This is my world.