All that coffee must have stunted my growth
Another undesirable trait of Monsieur Stoic’s is his habit of forgetting that I? Am not his height. I’m no shortie, standing as I do between 5’6″ and 5’7″. But at 6’4″, Stoic tends to stand a head above a lot of people, and it’s really hard for him to grasp that that 10 inches? Is a HUGE difference.
Going back to the same backyard project: while carrying the ladder from the back yard to the shop, Stoic lifted the ladder over a chair and was stopped short when I pulled on the ladder. “What?”
“I’m not tall enough to lift this ladder over this chair.”
His solution? Another tall person solution. “Then swing it over the table” which was to the right of the chair and in the direction we were trying to take the ladder.
“DUDE. That requires getting it over the chair in the first place! I CAN’T DO THAT.”
And again, later, when we were moving the porch swing….
“We need to move it back that way.” He motioned back about 8 feet, then proceeded to lift the swing near the top of the structure. I simply raised my eyebrow at him. He leaned down to pick it up where I was picking it up, down near the base, where I *actually* had the leverage to lift it.
Oh, and there was that one time we argued over whether or not I would be able to lift our 70 pound LCD TV onto the wall mount 6 feet off the ground. To get my point across, I agreed to give it a shot. Luckily, he stopped just before I dropped the freshly repaired piece of technology on his foot.
All the keys to the doors in the house? On top of the door frame. I can reach, if I stand on my tip toes, strain my shoulder, touch my tongue to my nose, and wiggle my right nipple. And he can’t figure out why I get so annoyed when all the doors are locked.
And, sooner or later, I invariably find all the most useful things in the kitchen on the top shelf. You know, climbing up on the counter was a lot easier when I was a kid. Now that I’m out of shape (it’s that damn bon-bon and soap opera habit of mine) and no longer 16 years old, lifting my foot above my waist AND THEN EXPECTING IT TO DO SOMETHING LIKE PULL MY WEIGHT OFF THE GROUND is more like the start to a bad joke.
I suppose I shouldn’t forget his point of view. After all, he’s been tall for the last 20+ years; plus, he’s spent most of his life doing physical projects with Womb Mate who is less than an inch shorter than him. But, I’ve decided all that is null and void because: he complains that he hates having to bend down to kiss me.
OH SURE, FORGET THE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE WHEN WE’RE LIFTING HEAVY SHIT BUT COMPLAIN ABOUT IT WHEN WE’RE MAKING OUT.