In fourth grade, my friend June and I were the two shortest girls in the by-height gym line-up. (I can picture those one-pieced blue gym outfits with our names embroidered on the pockets that were a nightmare to wear back then and, thankfully, no longer exist.)

By seventh grade, I had jumped to the tallest end of the line-up, no longer June-sized.  For my generation, I was a very tall 5’ 10”.

My closest friends throughout school were shorter than average, and my mother (erroneously) attributed my poor posture to my leaning down to hear what they were saying. Even in college, my good friends were short, and in my grown-up life, two of my closest friends are way below average height (and getting shorter, but so am I).

I never gave a thought to the height of the woman who has been our next-door neighbor these past eighteen years.  We try to have a drink with her and her husband at one of our homes every few weeks, but those are sitting-down events. 

Now that I have joined her in retirement, she and I decided to become walking buddies.  She picked me up this morning for a two-mile walk.  It was great fun to be just the girls and we had a lot to say to each another.

But, no surprise, I had to lean way down to hear her.