When I go for my annual check up, the one thing I dread is getting weighed. Stepping on the scale and getting confirmation of what my waistband has been telling me always makes me wince. But getting my height measured has never been a problem. I step right up, shoulders back, stomach in, nice and tall and proud. At my last doctor visit, I did that same routine, expecting to hear the same results. But this time, my GP informed me I had shrunk a whole half inch. I was robbed!
Getting shorter is one of the indignities of aging, but there are ways to compensate.
No longer can I claim I’m (almost) tall enough to be a fashion model or feel superior to my big brother because I have a height advantage. Those cute flats I bought for dates I hope to go on were probably a waste of money. Chance are, I won’t exactly tower over whomever is the lucky fella.
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