Episode Four
My goal in writing this column is to relay random NYC thoughts. Thus far, I’ve told of my experiences fish-out-of-water style. However, I have neglected to describe the fish. It dawned on me that I was simply writing these articles for my inner circle; my friends who know me well (for better or worse). At this point others are probably thinking, “Who is this douche and why am I reading this?” So now its time to peel the onion; I’m going to give you a glimpse of the man in my mirror. As to why you’re reading this, I’m not sure either.
To quote my friend Natty, the best way to describe me is, “You overgrown monkey!” Granted, these words were spoken several years ago in a fit of anger, but they were right on the money. I’ve always been very tall, and in my formative years I was quite clumsy. Overgrown to say the least. More on this later.
Secondly, I have always felt a special connection to the animal kingdom. Specifically, baby chimps wearing diapers. I also love chimps that do human things, such as skateboarding, playing ice hockey or becoming skilled in martial arts. And don’t even get me started on Project X. My tear ducts become open fire hydrants every time I watch that movie. Thus, in retrospect my freakish height and special bond with primates completely validates Natty’s angry outburst.
Lord only knows where my height came from. My parents are both average; my father stands 6’ 0” and my mother 5’5”. I somehow wound up being 8’3”. It’s quite the mystery; my folks used to joke that as a child, they laced my Cheerios with Miracle-Gro. Although it always got a laugh at cocktail parties, at times I have seriously considered its validity.
Most of the time, being tall is awesome. I’d much rather be tall than not. It wasn’t difficult to become this way either. In fact, it took zero effort on my part. As a teen, I luckily didn’t experience any of the growing pains usually associated with rapid enlargement. Instead, I became a sleeping machine. Oh man, did I sleep. For about a 5-year period, I was a Jedi master of passing out. My bedroom was a dojo of drool. This may explain why I’m so good at snoozing today: I’ve had a lot of practice. I perfected the art of the inexplicable coma, in which my growth hormone was apparently working overtime.
Unfortunately, my skills at passing out are useless to me on an airplane. In terms of physical discomfort, riding in a plane is particularly brutal. The only way to salvage a comfortable trip is to beg and plead for a seat in the emergency exit row. If you’re on the same flight as me, there’s a 95% chance that I’m your go to guy in case of disaster. I’ll be the dude ripping away the emergency window and guiding everyone down the yellow inflatable slide: women and children first, then seniors, then the fellas. If there’s time, I’ll save the pets too. Trust me; I’ve envisioned my heroics many times. My diminutive co-passengers are in good hands.
But even worse than the random injuries and tight squeezes are the awkward interactions that slowly infiltrate your day to day life. Having to deal with endless, “How’s the weather up there?” comments becomes tiresome. And retorting with, “The weather is exactly the same as it is for your midget-ass” doesn’t really fly on Thanksgiving at Aunt Mary’s.
In other words, it’s not all great. For every positive, there’s a negative. For example:
- Being able to reach things on the top shelf vs. constantly being asked to get things off the top shelf. (This goes for changing light bulbs too)
- Having a great stage view at any concert vs. making archenemies with whoever is behind you.
- Meeting girls who like tall guys vs. awkwardly leaning down in order to carry a conversation over the blaring jukebox.
Since moving here, I’ve realized that New York City presents its own unique challenges for tall folk. The fact that space is at such a premium, means that every square inch is utilized, including vertical space. This is obvious just from looking at the Manhattan skyline. In fact, this “no place to go but up” mentality is a treasured and endearing aspect of this city. It helped shape its character. But the same principle can be miserable in other respects.
For example, there’s a neighborhood grocery store right next to my apartment. Convenient, right? Sometimes. But more so, it’s infuriating. First off, I think it was designed by M.C. Escher. The aisles are impossibly tight, with merchandise stacked to the ceiling. Trying to pass someone with a shopping cart is threading quite a needle. If you’re not careful, it may result in a crate of Gefilte Fish falling on your head.
And if I’m not hitting my noggin on a Teflon pan dangling from the ceiling, I’m retrieving a bottle of random Mediterranean liquid for a random Mediterranean senior citizen. Now, I have nothing against helping the elderly with hard to reach items. That comes with the territory. But trying to interpret what a non-English speaking person is pointing at, amidst an aisle full of foreign label products? That’s a different story. It usually plays out like this:
- I move my hand to where I think they’re pointing, and give them a non-verbal “Ehhhh? Is this what you want?”
- They shake their head, mutter something I don’t understand, and point even more emphatically at what seems to be the same spot.
- I move my hand around, stopping at virtually every item in the vicinity and repeat my confused, unspoken query.
- The person gives me the “Are you some kind of retard?” look and continues the unintelligible babble.
- I pretend to have a seizure and the senior citizen goes away.
Now, I don’t mean to sound bitter, but if you had to deal with these things for most of your adult life, they’d get on your nerves too. So I beg you, dear reader; resist the urge to scream, “Down in front!” at your next concert. Bite your tongue if you’re inclined to ask about someone’s basketball prowess. And when you hear that he only played a little in high school; don’t communicate a look of disappointment. We can’t all play in the NBA.
What I’m saying is this: don’t even bother with the height issue, because we’ve heard it all before. Get to know us before asking silly questions. If you’re enlisting our services, please show some gratitude (and speak our language). Who knows? If we’re ever on the same flight, your life may depend on it.
Article Series
This article is part 4 of a 5 part series. Other articles in this series are shown below:
-
Saved by Supermans Girlfriend
-
Isnt it Quixotic
-
Unsolved Mysteries 179th St
-
Ehhh....Is This What You Want?
-
The Whackout of '06
7 Responses to "Ehhh....Is This What You Want?" 
Author/Admin)
