Over My Head

I’m about 5’ 8” – on a good day. A little taller when standing on a foot stool or strapping on a pair of circus stilts. But those days are behind me - the circus, that is. The sad truth is that my height was once average. Not today. I don’t know if it’s the stuff they pump our food with to grow tomatoes the size of weather balloons or all the glowing nuclear waste permeating every parcel of soil. Whatever it is, something’s definitely up. And it’s us.

People are just taller nowadays. Did you know that Abraham Lincoln was no more than 5’ 3”? His hat alone was a good 18, 19, maybe 20 inches tall. Only he happened to live during a time when most people were well under 5’. Back then, the average American could stand on his tiptoes in the middle of a train track and not suffer so much as a scratch. The cars simply barred on and above. Many did it because electric fans hadn’t been invented yet and the racing locomotive provided some refreshing, albeit recycled air. 

I can’t make sense of the issues of the day. The reason is simple. Most things sail right over my head. To understand anything, even the most basic political or social tenet, having some stature helps. For an idea to enter you it has to land right on target. That means directly in the face. Between the eyes is ideal, but you can still grasp something should it bounce off your cheek or smack you in the forehead. What you can’t have is it fly a good foot, foot and a half above your hairline. When theories are swirling around in the air, those of us too short to notice end up with a faulty grip on reality. 

That’s my problem. I’m not asking you to send milk crates, phonebooks or high heels to better comprehend healthcare, free trade or the efficacy of vaccines. I asking for something else.

What I have to do, what I must do, is lower the current level of discourse. Who says it can't get worse? You might think that’s impossible, but it’s not. I have to bring everyone else down, convince basketball players to sit on their hands and play the game from a crouching position. The one thing I’ve never understood, perhaps due to my size, is why it’s called basketball – emphasis on basket. What kind of basket has a hole in the bottom? Imagine shopping for groceries, grabbing the ripest plums, the sweetest melons, only to arrive at the register with nothing but net. 

To hell with the high road. Since hell is, ya know, well below. Right?