Height Makes Right

         If you’re still deciding on who to cast your chad for this November, consider this: John Kerry is six feet four inches tall, five inches taller than George W. Bush, who tops out at five foot eleven. Does it matter? It might…  I just read that in the 21 presidential elections from 1904 to 1984, the taller candidate won 80 percent of the time. Now you read it too.

         It remains to be seen whether a female presidential candidate would benefit from standing tall, but it’s generally assumed that for men, it’s a plus. Shorter candidates have often avoided being photographed next to a taller opponent, so if there’s a debate between GWB and JK, watch to see if the difference is allowed to become apparent- candidates set a lot of rules before they’ll agree to a debate.

         I’m fairly tall, at something like six foot one and eleven-sixteenths, and I believe my life is easier for it. Sure, I can change a lightbulb without a ladder and reach the top shelf at the market, but the biggest advantage, at least for us men, is interpersonal. I don’t know whether it’s a primitive dominance of the pack thing or society’s to blame, but being taller is an inherently more powerful position to be in. Taller people are expected to be strong and competent and, in short, leadership material, and are therefore given more opportunities to become just that. I’ve seen that shorter men often have to work harder for the same respect.

         Anyway, that’s my impression and I might be wrong, but there’s no way to test it. I can see how the world treats me if I dye my hair blonde, or wear a tie, or use a wheelchair. I could even go out disguised as a woman, albeit an ugly one. But I can’t go out into the world and experience being five foot six.

         Too bad—it would be interesting to experience life without some of the little hassles of being tall. My back would feel better after doing dishes. I wouldn’t have to see the dusty top of your refrigerator. I would fit in more cars without having to crank the seat back until I look like an astronaut awaiting liftoff. Shirts might stay tucked in. I could sleep on a plane. And I could go to the movies late and sit right in front of somebody without their groaning and complaining because my “big stupid head” is in their way (quote provided by anonymous seven year old at “Finding Nemo”).

         Actually, I did once have a taste of being average height. I was watching a concert in North Dakota (don’t ask), and walked out to a lobby full of towering all-American corn-fed boys, many from the nearby Air Force base. I was looking for a friend, and all these flat-top blondes were in my way. I felt claustrophobic and annoyed.

         Alternately, to effectively grow six inches one merely needs to go someplace with a shorter average height, like Japan. For full effect, visit some older buildings, where anyone over five foot eight better learn how to duck under doorways. Once in, it can still be unsafe. I was partially scalped by a sprinkler head as I got up from the table at a sushi bar in Sapporo. The waiter, shocked, ran off to report the incident, and before I knew it two men had arrived to make sure the sprinkler head was all right. Some of those old places are firetraps.

         In fifth grade, I had a classmate who, at five foot ten, towered above us all. I don’t know what his mom put in his cereal, but he was taller than the teacher. The girls, a year or two ahead of us growth-wise, doted on him. He had it made. But he acted all superior about it, and his arrogance brought a hex upon himself that prevented him from growing ever again. For the next few years he had to watch, powerless, as we sprouted up around him and his tall-guy nicknames fell away.

         Maybe in the long run he got off easy. Being extra tall just seems to bring trouble. Take for example the standard advice for guys headed to prison. “What you gotta do is kick the ass of the biggest guy you can find, and from then on they’ll leave you alone.” That makes some sense, but how’d you like to be the biggest guy? Every day, another busload of guys looking for you. Being super tall would also mean having to endure endless repetitions of “Hey, do you play basketball?”

         To which you’d have to reply, “No, do you play miniature golf?”

         I’m sure that tallness is a totally different deal for women, except that they get to hear the same uninspired clichés like “Hey Krista, how’s the weather up there?” Is it good to be a female and tall? Most supermodels are close to six feet tall, and I intend to ask them about this matter next chance I get.