The Struggles of Being Tiny

I have always known that being 5ft was short. Perhaps some would say ‘petite’, for a kinder word.

I remember how glad I was in school when we had to line up in height ascending order; I was secretly happy I was second from the front. Yes, there was indeed someone else more ‘petite’ than I was, but the truth of the matter was I had a lot to prove.

So I’m mingling amongst my ranger colleagues at work, looking UP at their excited faces when they talk about their weekend. The other day, I learned to use a pole pruner, and with much difficulty (it felt like I was on tiptoe), I managed to step cut a small branch. I was always keen to help out with stone walling until I held a shovel with a handle that was two times the length of my entirety. Nonetheless I get on with it and compensate by using clever tricks like jumping with utmost accuracy, utilising my stretchy yoga skills to reach for things and in dire circumstance ask a tall person to assist.

If I had one wish I would want to be able to teleport myself anywhere; I guess I’m getting used to the struggle of being ‘petite’.