Behind My Door: Get lost, Randy Newman!

By Sandra Bernhardt

One of my arms is longer than the other. I wasn’t born that way — it comes from countless years of carrying a stepstool in a world designed for adults who don’t need a boost at drinking fountains.  

When I was small, my father considered gluing two bricks together so I could reach the bottom shelf of my toy cabinet. Today, I use a soup ladle to move a glass (or shot glass) forward so I can reach it from my lowest china cabinet shelf. 

When Randy Newman sings “Short People have no reason to live,” I fervently wish that it were legal to kill him. Better yet, make him suffer by ordering him to spend an entire week walking around on his knees!  

As my faithful readers know, there are some things to which one can become adjusted: if you can’t sing, you avoid piano bars; if you can’t dance, you pour the punch; but if you’re short, there you are, and telling people ‘I’m five-seven’ only evokes sneers.

When I was in high school, petite was in, but shortly thereafter, the tall and willowy look became firmly entrenched. I use the word “entrenched” for good reason: with every inch, the hemlines are lowered, I am more and more taking on the look of one who is standing in a ditch.

The humiliations are endless. At the supermarket last week, I had to corner an eight-year-old to get a can of lima beans down from the shelf for me. Then, when I had a two-week supply of groceries heaped up and was waiting at the checkout, people kept stepping in front of my cart, thinking no one was there.

Food marketing isn’t the only thing I find horrifying. My last venture into Rachel’s Ready-to-Wear nearly sent me to the home.

Bravely, I entered the store and easily spotted the clerk. She was svelte, five-nine and made Dolly Parton look bloated. “Ah, I was just looking for a pair of beige slacks,” I told her.

“Hmmmm, we’ll have to see what we can do,” Rachel said, looking down at me. She went into the storeroom, and I could hear her frantically slapping through the hangers. I assumed she was searching for the “Stumpy Women” section.”  

I took refuge in a fitting room to experiment with a stylish “pant liner.”  As you may know, the pant liner is like a girdle that extends from the waist down to mid-calf. My friend, Madge, claims it makes her legs look long and sleek. I figured anything was worth a try.

Ten minutes later, perspiration glistening on my forehead, I whirled toward the three-way mirror to view the transformation. Some transformation. I looked like Danny DeVito in drag. My new measurements had become 42-38-41-46, the 46 being my ankles. My varicose veins began picketing for more sick leave.

Groaning, I rolled the garment back down like a giant lifesaver and returned to the clerk, who was by now draped across the rack with her head in her hands.

“Do you ever wear Junior Petite things?” she asked half-heartedly, noting my midriff bulge.

“Only neck scarves,” I quipped. 

She didn’t laugh.

“Well, then, this is the best we can do,” she said, whipping out a creamy tan pair of slacks with stylish pleats. I eagerly held them up to my waist.

There was enough excess fabric piled on the floor in front of me to make up a three-piece travel outfit with matching luggage.

That did it! “This is all you have?” I growled, wagging my finger at her navel. “Do you know what I’ll look like in these? Even if I cut nine inches off, the crotch will still swing between my knees!”

After ruminating on the nightmare of garment shopping, I decided that anyone could be chic and sophisticated despite one’s height. It was simply mind over matter. So, one evening I wore this shimmery black dress to a dinner party, leaned back in a velvet chair, kept my voice sultry and low and almost pulled it off.

If only my feet had reached the floor.

Even my husband has rubbed salt into the wounds. At breakfast one morning, he calmly informed me that he’d just read in the Wall Street Journal that if I were just two inches shorter, I could be considered a dwarf. I could have lived without that information. Laughing hysterically, my sons were falling off their chairs.

Risking death, Ralph offered to buy me a booster seat for Christmas.

For more than 30 years, Fort Atkinson’s Sandra (Sandi) Bernhardt has enjoyed humorous public speaking in Wisconsin and beyond. During her career, she served as a human resources director, as well as a customer service consultant for a healthcare company. Active in the community, Sandy is a graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater and the mother of three grown sons.