Shorty Pie


That’s the sound my compact and portable step-stool will make when I unsheathe it from its holster on my back, à la ‘Hansel’ from Zoolander.

I’m short. I used to delude myself that I was 5’2″, but over the past few years I’ve begrudgingly accepted I’m 5’1″. Short and sweet. Just like arsenic.

I can imagine what it feels like to be tall. I’ve stood on step-stools before.

No longer would I need to seek out random tall people in the grocery store. Shapow! Instant step-stool. Perching precariously on the ledge of a store shelf, hoping and praying the bottles of Perrier don’t all come crashing down on my face as I stretch my height to the limit, fingers wiggling in the hopes of coaxing a bottle towards me? A thing of the past. Though I’ll probably miss the smiles of amusement from tall men when I bat my eyelashes prettily as I make my “I’m short. Will you please help me?” plea. “Look at you all the way down there. How cute. Hellooooooo.”

It’s a funny, dangerous world being short. It’s easy to lose me in department stores. “Where did she go?” Meanwhile, I’m standing an aisle over, conveniently hidden by racks of clothing. On the plus side, I am the perfect height for motorboating. The perfect height!

At home, it’s easy being short. I have tongs. Or, if I’m feeling less lazy, I can walk the ten feet across the kitchen and grab the blue Rubbermaid step-stool. The extra foot still isn’t enough height to change a light bulb, however. One day I’ll be found broken and lifeless on my floor, tongs in a death grip.

Whilst on the subject of kitchens: If you want to fuck with a short person, push every box of crackers, etc. an inch or two past the shelf ledge. A tall friend of mine likes to do this. You know who you are. THANKS!

So…yeah. Back to that compact and portable step-stool that I can strap to my back in a lovely little holster. Someone needs to get on that. I like jewel tones, though gunmetal grey will do in a pinch. As for the holster? Leather. Leather. Leather.