The Height

To anyone who may not know, I’m tall.

I’m not 7’6”, but I’m less than a foot away from that. Eight inches, to be exact.

I wish I had a dollar for every time someone asked me how tall I was. I would be a millionaire.

The most popular questions/statements and the responses to them are as follows:
Q: How tall are you?
A: Nine foot seven.
Q: When will you stop growing?
A: Only God knows.
Q: Is it cold up there?
A: There’s a slight breeze.
Q: Is it raining up there?
A: *commence spitting* Nope, how about down there?
Q: Are your parents feeding you Miracle Grow?
A: Every morning for breakfast.
Q: Are we gonna hafta put a brick on your head?
A: Hard pass.
Q: What size shoes do you wear?
A: SunTracker pontoon mediums.
Q: Do you play basketball?
A: Never heard of it.
Q: You’re not still growing, are you?
A: I’m growing out.
Q: Are your parents tall?
A: They’re both four foot eleven.

I was walking through a North Florida Welcome Center, trying to acquire free fresh-squeezed orange juice, when an elderly gentleman yelled at me. It turned out he thought I played for the Florida Gators. He claimed he had seen me playing in their most recent game.

Being tall is not fun. I’ll admit, I never thought about how nice it was to reach the top shelf in the grocery store until an elderly lady asked me to help her get a box of hamburger helper. Poor lady. She barely cleared my kneecaps.

I’ve hit my head so many times. Even drew blood a time or two. Ran into more ceiling fans than I care to remember.

I’ve been asked by strangers to find someone in a crowd. He was wearing a bright orange hat. I found him.

I guess it has its advantages, but I probably need to charge for my services.

to the lanky,
– Caleb