Stature

Stature:
1. the height of something, esp a person or animal when standing
2. the degree of development of a person: the stature of a champion
3. intellectual or moral greatness: a man of stature

The Fence
I look down at the street from the apartment my family rents on the weekends. We live to far away from church to get there on Sunday, so we rent a place and come to town on Saturday. It’s Saturday afternoon and my parents and siblings are all off doing something else. I’m alone, and I’m bored. The apartment is built on an embankment about three feet above the road, and is completely surrounded by a metal fence topped with galvanized spikes about the size of nails. A stairwell cuts its way down to the street and the only gate out. I have a few spare coins so I decide to go to the little corner store and see what I can afford to buy. I usually have enough for a sucker, or some chicles. I skip along the fence toward the stair well running my hand along the bars as I run. I am shorter than the fence, but not by much. When I reach the stairwell and gate instead of walking over to where it starts I simply jump in from the side. I do it almost every time. Suddenly, right before my feet hit the bottom cement step I jerk to a stop. I look up in surprise to see what I go hooked on, and to my utter horror I see that one of the spikes on the top of the gate has lodged itself firmly in my right ring finger, entering about at the second knuckle and exiting beside my nail. Like I said I am shorter that the fence, so I can’t touch the ground. My big toe on my left foot scrapes the cement a tiny bit as I swing back and forth from the momentum of my jump. I try pulling myself up, but the fence is designed to not allow climbing, and it is hopeless. I twist my body around to face the apartment and start calling for my dad. No one comes. I dangle there for what seems like hours, but must only be a matter of minutes still swinging as I dangle there from that horrid spike. Finally my dad comes out of the apartment and as he is walking past I call out and he sees me. He runs over to me, and wraps his arms around me relieving the pressure from my finger. “Why would you do this?” He asks, “No one should have to pull their son off a fence.” Then holding me in one arm he grabs my impaled finger with the other and pulls it off the spike. I can feel every galvanized bump as my finger slides off the fence. Only then does the pain start.

Short is Relative
the average height of a male in the U.S. is five foot ten inches. The average height of a male in Mexico is five foot four inches. So I am tall In Mexico, and short in the U.S.

Wrestling
I look at my opponent across the mat. The match is about to start, and I know I have gotten into his head. I’ve been accentuating my limp, and walking with my head down like I’m scared. I’m smaller than he is by a good six pounds or so, and it shows. My arms are smaller, and my ribs can plainly be seen poking out above my singlet. The referee calls us over, and I move over slowly not meeting my opponents eyes, acting scared. We get to the middle of the mat and the ref instructs us to shake hands. Mine are cold and I don’t squeeze very hard when we shake. I do this acting every time I wrestle someone who has never seen me before. My small stature works to my advantage as I pretend to be weak and scared. I can tell my opponent’s guard is down, and he is thinking that this will be the easiest match of his life. He lets go of my hand and we get into position to start. I smile nervously at my foe, and then the whistle blows. The other guy just stands there not expecting to have to do anything for a few seconds. It is normal for wrestlers to circle around each other for a little while before anything really happens, and he knows I am small and scared so I definitely won’t make the first move. I slam into his left leg like a strike of lightning, and he doesn’t even have time to readjust his assessment of me before my arms are wrapped tight around his neck and arms pinning his shoulder blades to the ground. The referee slaps the mat, and I let him go. As I stand up I hear him try to make some lame excuse to the referee about how he wasn’t ready. I look up at the clock twenty three seconds. We shake hands again, and then mine is lifted into the air. I probably could have beaten him anyway, but I love seeing that look of complete disbelief in people’s eyes when someone smaller and seemingly weaker just destroyed them.

Napoleon
Napoleon’s shortness has been greatly exaggerated. Although it is true that when he died his body was measured at five foot four inches tall, he was measured in French feet not the Standard English feet we all use. In reality Napoleon was five foot six inches tall which was about the norm at the time. Another factor that lead to Napoleon’s shortness being exaggerated is that his personal guards where always very tall.

Wedding Tuxedo
I pull up to my future in-law’s house in my old beat up Toyota Corona. It’s the night before my wedding, and my father-in-law-to-be, Dan, just picked up my tuxedo. I am going to try it on, but I’m not worried about the fit, because when we ordered it every conceivable measurement was made. I go into the house, and step into a whirlwind of activity. Getting ready for a wedding is so much more stressful for the bride and her family than it is for the groom and his. “Here try this on” my Mother-in-law-to-be, Laurie, tells me handing me the tuxedo. I nod my head and walk into the bathroom. As soon as I start putting on the tux I know that there is something wrong. The pants are too long, so are the sleeves, in fact every thing about the tux was made for someone a few inches taller, and twenty pounds heavier than me. I look like an anorexic version of Charlie Chaplin, not a good look for a wedding. I walk back out to my future in-laws and all activity stops. I can tell that Laurie is about to cry when she sees me. Getting the tux was supposed to be the easy part, it’s a no brainer. “Didn’t they measure him?” She asks. Dan and I both nod. “They must have looked at the measurements later and thought they’d made a mistake” I said “so they let it out a little.” “There’s no time to take it back now” Dan says matter-of-factly, and then he gets to work pulling and pinning the tuxedo into place. In a minute it looks like it was actually fitted to me. “I’ll sew this up tonight” Dan tells me “it’ll be ready in the morning for you to pick up.” Thanks to Dan my tuxedo looks awesome on my wedding day, and fits me perfectly. Although, if anyone bothers to look closely they will see some hand sewn stiches of green thread holding the whole thing together.

King Louis
In the early 1700s, France's King Louis XIV (who was short for his time) would often wear five inch heels decorated with miniature battle scenes. The king decreed that only nobility could wear heels that were colored red and that no one's heels could be taller than his own.

Wrestling Again
I’m on the mat again after six years. It’s the first day of wrestling practice for the USU wrestling club. I’m excited. We do some preliminary warmups, and then it is finally time for my first match. My opponent outweighs me by about thirty pounds, but I’m not worried I was always able to beat anyone when I was in high school. We circle around each other, and then engage. I realize then that I have vastly over estimated my ability. This guy is right out of high school, and he’s fit. I am out of shape, and have lost all the muscle tone I once had. He gets me in a bad position and begins to force my back onto the mat. He is bigger, stronger, and in better shape than me, but I am determined not to give in. I twist my body so that I am on my knees, but my shoulders are still towards the mat. He pushes harder, and I tense every muscle in resistance. Suddenly I feel my right floating rib pop, broken by all the tension and twisting. For the first time in my life I tap out.