A parody written for creative writing. Enjoy!
Nicole Richie is right; there is an entire world out there I know nothing about. At most, I can see the very bottom layer, but there is so much more there I can’t grasp; at least not comfortably or safely. The entire world is geared for the upper layer, leaving people like me below. I try to fool myself into believing it is a positive experience. I know, and you know, it is all smoke and mirrors designed to increase the pockets of those who prey on people like us, who want us to purchase items like stools, heels, hats, anything to fool the world into thinking we are tall. Stores conspicuously place items out of our reach, chairs cause our feet to dangle inches from the floor, and beds require us to hop up or buy one of those stools because the world caters to tall people.
Beautiful exhibits decorate the windows of Barney’s of New York, tilting my head to view the display in all its elegant simplicity, I see the graceful lines of the model’s form fitting jeans, the heels and the large oversized bag of an ensemble I dream of wearing. Pushing open the door, I immediately notice the click of heels as the sales assistant moves to greet me.
Gesturing with her hand, as if to display the expansiveness of Barney’s, “Welcome, can I assist you with finding something?” As she moves toward me my eyes are bombarded with tightly covered, manufactured boobs wrapped in a fabric screaming ‘see how much I cost’, the first float in a fashion parade. The boobs scarcely shift despite the perkiness of the sales assistant’s overly animated walk in heels designed to maximize her Amazon-like height and bullet shaped boobs. Reluctantly I raise my eyes to meet her eyes but she is gazing over my head. I mentally check to make sure I’m standing in front of her. Yep, I’m still here about 7 inches below her line of vision but definitely here.
“I would like to see the ensemble in the display in my size.” The sales assistant’s eyes skim over my body, not in the ‘I can’t wait to dress this person in a fabulous outfit’ but in a ‘you have got to be kidding me’ eye skim. I shift uncomfortably, already anticipating the rejection. “I do not think we have that ensemble in a petite size, but I can direct to you a section geared toward styles designed to flatter tiny people,” she said in a carefully modulated soothing tone. I imagine her voice marketed as cough syrup, soothing, smooth with a degree of condescension for the cough that refuses to follow the norm.
Standing my ground, “No, I really want to try the outfit displayed. I’m sure you have a similar outfit for short people.” I put it out there, yes, I’m short. Short is not a sin, it is a fact of life. The sales assistant should be able to accommodate my fashion choices.
Slowly she turns, assuming I will follow her into the bowels of the fashion forward, long-legged, skinny models rocking form-fitting pants, incredibly high heels and oversized bags. A tiny smile hovers on my face. Pausing in front of a rack of pants, she says, “Here are the pants on the window model, when you are ready to try something on, please let me know.”
I look at the rack. The pants immediately in front of my eyes are 36 inches long. What female wears 36 inch long pants? I scan the rack from side to side searching for a length of 25 inches. The sizes within my reach range from 30-36 inches. I do not understand the concept of putting the longer lengths on bottom. I feel it’s a conspiracy against short people. I step back from the rack to see the upper shelves, the shorter sizes are clearly marked and all out of my reach. I do not see a step stool or the sales person.
Grasping the shelf above my head, I step onto the bottom shelf and push the stack of pants aside with the toe of my shoe. Precariously balanced on the lower shelf, gripping the upper shelf with my left hand, I stretch my right arm as far as possible. I barely graze the last pair of pants on the stack. Flicking my fingers back and forth I try to dislodge the stack. I feel the pants shift.
“What do you think you are doing?” soothing tone now gone, the sales assistant’s voice resembles raw whiskey being poured on an open wound of affront. Teetering, I lose my grip and tumble backwards, landing heavily on my arse. From Amazonian height the sales assistant’s thinly veiled disdain stares down at me, as if it is my fault I am unable to reach the short sizes.
Scrambling up, shades of red suffuse my face and neck. Embarrassed from falling, from being short, from being me cause me to lash out at the sales assistant, “I am trying to reach the sizes in my section, which you have purposely placed out of my reach in an effort to humiliate and belittle me.” My voice climbs steadily, growing louder and louder, echoing off the refined walls of Barney’s muted sophistication in a satisfying screech.
Years of being short, of not being part of the upper echelon of the population, years of being unable to compete in a world geared for tall people, fill me with indignation and I stalk toward the door, small steps defy the urgency of my exit, contributing to my frustration. Behind me, the sales clerks carefully modulated voice back in place, says, “I told you we didn’t have anything for you here.”
Pausing, blindly reacting to my emotions, I turn around. My anger is palpable transforming me into a tornado of arms and legs as I launch myself at the sales assistant. Colliding with her bullet boobs, we fall to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs as I welcome her to my world.
A parody written for creative writing. Enjoy!