Dick Writes About the Height of Insult
It’s called a Posture Corrector. That used to be my grandmother’s nickname. “Sit up in your chair” was her favorite expression. “Don’t slouch” was a close second.
This device guarantees that from the moment you strap it on, you will be two inches taller. If you are a guy, this contraption and a pair of high heels will be a hit at your 50th reunion.
Most people stop growing in their late teens or early 20s. I remember reading many years ago that at Barack Obama’s physical, he had apparently grown by over an inch since taking office. His doctor said there was no explanation for this. The Democrats said it was Obamacare.
Of course, seniors do not usually get taller. Just the opposite. One of my favorite New Yorker cartoons is an elderly woman tracking her husband’s height with pencil marks on the inside of a closet door, just like our parents did when we were kids. Sadly, the lines on the door suggest the man had slowly been getting shorter.
Recently, I had my annual physical. While I was there, I was also weighed and measured for my height. My father was six feet tall, and my mother was barely five feet, so I always assumed I was right in the middle at 5′ 10″. (You can see now why I didn’t do well in math.) For almost 60 years, I listed myself as 5′ 10″ on my driver’s license, passport, and all medical questionnaires. It not only made me feel taller, but also made me seem trim on the weight chart. If I gained a few pounds, I just told myself I grew. I found this easier than cutting back on pie.
The nurse reviewed the stats:
“Blood pressure: 123 over 80; height: 5′8″; weight: 170.”
“Whoa! How tall did you say I was?”
“That would be 5 feet, 8 inches—in your socks, which adds a little, of course.”
“Look, first of all, I’m 5′ 10”. Okay, maybe 5′ 9 ½.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Wolfsie. Please grab one of the blue gowns off that hook on the door…if you can reach it.”
That night when I got home, I asked my wife how tall she thought I was. “Well, let’s see, when I’m in heels, I’m taller than you, and I’m 5′ 7″, so I guess I’d say you are 5′ 8″. And you’re just about as adorable as can be.”
“But when we got married, I told you I was 5′ 10”. You should have said something,”
“I figured you just rounded it up from 5′ 7.” You did the same thing with your math SATs. By the way, I also didn’t believe that 170 number you threw at me—not by a long shot.”
“You think I lied about my weight?”
“Oh, I thought that was the IQ you were bragging about. I figure you rounded up again. This time from 100”
The bottom line is I have to admit that either I’m a pathological liar who needs some expensive counseling, or I am—and this is tough to admit—shrinking. It depends on which one is covered by Medicare.
Dick Wolfsie is a retired TV personality, author, speaker, teacher and all-around good guy. His award-winning column appears here weekly.