When you’re 10, there’s always some fantastic fantasy that you nurture. You want to be a rock-star or an astronaut or you want to time travel. My fantasy? To be over five feet tall. No jokes. I’m 17 (as of yesterday) and the fantasy hasn’t faded. At 4’10”, (you read that right) I’m only just learning to love my ‘petite-ness’.

Trust me, being a woman of small stature is not the ideal situation. I know the best things, like expensive diamonds, come in tiny boxes not gigantic cartons. That doesn’t mean I haven’t had my share of wishing I was a gigantic carton. Or, at least a normal-sized one.

Picture me. This shy 13-year-old in a new school. I’m filled with nervousness. The first words I hear, “Are you in the right class? The fifth standard is on the third floor.”

Embarrassing? Yes. Needless to say we didn’t become fast friends. Cut to four years later, and simple things like shopping can become quite tedious. “I’m sorry but this is the smallest size we have. Perhaps, we can alter it for you?”

“Madame, the kid’s section is that way.”

“We don’t make adult shoes in that size. I’m sorry”

Yeah, I’ve heard these lines so often I can actually pre-empt the conversation based on the expression of the salesperson. I’ve even mastered the art of self-deprecating humour on being short. But don’t get me wrong, it’s not all a tragedy. In fact, being ‘vertically handicapped’, as I fondly put it, has its perks.

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