What it’s like to live life above average height

The average adult American male stands at 5-foot-9.

That proves my belief I’ve always been well above average.

At 6-5, I don’t even remember being that short, though I must have been — maybe in grade school, perhaps in junior high, but no later.

Being taller than almost everyone else is a fact of life I’ve come to terms with, the way others deal with a stutter or a limp.

The other day I ran into a girl I knew back in high school, and she asked, “Is it possible that you’re still growing? You seem taller.”

There is no correct answer to that kind of question. One reply — “You must have gotten shorter” is too mean, too snarky. The other — “I guess I never noticed” — sounds too dismissive, too arrogant.

So I just smiled and laughed, said how nice it was to see her again and started thinking how something I’ve always taken for granted can seem so remarkable to another person. Occasionally, I’ll run into someone who knows me only from the thumbnail photo that usually accompanies my work, and the same thing happens.

“I had no idea you were so tall” is a comment I’m used to hearing.

The whole thing is entirely about genetics. My father was a tall man with a slender build and a full head of prematurely gray hair.

Check, check, check.

He was easy to spot in a crowd if one of his children — or Mom — lost track of him in a public place. This too is true, as my wife has often resorted to the same tactic when we somehow get separated.

It also helps when she needs help hanging up a set of wind chimes.

There are other advantages. I’ve never had a problem seeing a parade roll by. I can reach a can of peaches from the top shelf if a lady needs help in a grocery store. When a helium balloon sails to the ceiling, I can reel it in, provided the string is long enough. And when playing first base, I could catch anything that came my way.

But in other sports and leisure activities, my height is a problem, especially individual pursuits like golf or bowling, games in which being closer to the ground can provide serious advantages.

When I’m addressing a ball on the first tee, for example, I mentally calibrate the complexity involved in synchronizing all those moving parts — shoulders and arms and hips and legs — and I feel practically paralyzed. Similarly, standing on the approach, getting ready to roll my first ball in our Friday morning seniors league, it’s like I’m preparing to bend my frame into something akin to a beach chair being folded up after a long day in the summer sun.

Those are mere annoyances, though, when compared to what it was like growing up taller than almost everyone else. You heard the same taunts — “What’s the weather like up there?” — and were tagged with the same old nicknames — “slats” and “stick” and “high pockets” — to the point it was just part of the landscape.

Getting clothes to fit properly was always an adventure as well, especially when it was time to go back to school. As a parochial student, it wasn’t too bad since we all wore the same white shirts, dark ties and trousers. But once I jumped into the public school pool, where personalities were often expressed in the latest styles, I had a rather difficult time finding cool, new stuff in my correct size.

“You might try back when the circus is in town,” a salesman said to me once, believing he was the first to use that tiresome jibe. Tempted as I was, I refrained from calling him a first-class clown.

In group photos I’ve always stood in the back row, and quite often my face is obscured by someone in front of me, up on their tiptoes to be more visible. When I used to go to concerts, I hardly ever stood up from my seat when the music got good, not wanting to block someone else’s view. I’ve had to be mindful of my height when slinking through subterranean caverns or touring pirate ships, not wanting to put a knot on my head by banging into something.

One area in which being so tall has been a boon was back, a long time ago, in my dating days. It always seemed to me women were quite comfortable walking beside me, especially the taller ones who probably felt awkward when they were with shorter guys.

They have always been my favorites, the ladies who stood above the crowd. My wife, for instance, is a lithesome 5-9, far beyond the American female average, which is 4 inches shorter.

Our tallest president, you’ll no doubt already know, was Abraham Lincoln, who was 6-4. Michael Crichton, author of “Jurassic Park,” stands 6-9, and Thomas Wolfe, who wrote “You Can’t Go Home Again,” was 6-6. Historians believe Jesus stood 5-1, Julius Caesar 5-5 and Napoleon, he of the little-man complex, was 5-6.

Drummer Mick Fleetwood is 6-6, and Tom Scholz, the genius behind Boston, is 6-5, with Davy Jones (5-3) and Prince (5-2) at the other end of the spectrum. Clint Eastwood and Tim Robbins (both 6-5) are among the tallest actors, with Al Pacino and Tom Cruise (5-6 each) standing just taller than the 5-5 Dustin Hoffman.

That’s about the size of it for now. 'Til we meet again, stand tall.

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where height (like age) is just another number.