I have no scars on my forehead from running into cupboard doors. I am safe from low-hanging light fixtures and the tops of door frames. I am humble, from Humus: close to the ground, and I will, actuarial tables say, not find myself real humus until after my taller brethern, who typically succumb to tallness-related illnesses such as heart attacks earlier than me. Being short means I am also closer to the good things in life - small animals and cute kids among them - and am less likely to suffer the elder-embarrassment of having my false teeth pop out as I bend over to pat aforesaid good things.
If I were skinnier, I could shop in the boyswear department. Boys get to wear clothing that's way cooler than what men have to choose from, and while it is possible for me to lose some weight if I'm so motivated, it would require much more determination to lose some height. I also get to drive a really sweet little car that is just out of the picture for someone taller, unless s/he is versed in advanced autoeroticism.
Being short means I can actually stretch out in the bathtub. I can enjoy the ride from the back seat. Flying economy class is not hazardous to my health. And unless I'm sitting behind Six-Foot Sam, watching a movie is two hours with legroom.
For every woman who tingles at the sight of someone 30cm taller than her, there is another who thinks short guys are just "sooooo sweet," and wants to wrap them up in a little blankie and take them home and give them warm milk and honey to drink and fuck them until dawn. Works for me. While I have no wish to take advantage of such a mothering instinct, I'm not rejecting it either.
And it is not a small pleasure to know that there are tall people who envy my stature.
So where does being short turn sour? Festival seating at a rock concert. The active part of a mosh pit. Reaching stuff on the top shelf at the supermarket. But all things considered, these are remediable situations, and in short, I'd rather be.
This writeup is an Everything2® exclusive