By Carol J. Rhodes
From kindergarten through twelfth grade, I was the tallest one in my class. Most of the boys didn’t even come up to my shoulders. I envied the short shapely girls who were aiways elected as cheerleaders or majorettes, and who never had to endure being called granddaddy longlegs, skinny Minnie, or told they would be mistaken for a thermometer if they drank tomato juice. Sometimes it made me hate my parents for giving me too tall genes. Later in college, I found some of those same short boys had suddenly grown up. I was swamped with dates, while many of the shorter girls now sat home. Later on I married a man several inches taller than I, a perfect fit when we danced , or in our intimate moments.
A few months ago, I attended my twenty-fifth high school reunion. The once-popular girls were all there, still short but, gurprigingly, most of them are what would be
called chubby. Seeing them, I was immediately thankful my taller stature made allowances for the inevitable midlife pounds which, on me, had been converted to curves.
GUEST COLUMN – GOOD THINGSCOME TO THOSE WHO WAIT
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