It dawned on me the other day, as my kids were laughing hysterically at the new pencil stroke marking their ever diminishing mother, that my reducing height is a massive metaphorical joke on my career.
Once, I had 5′ 4″ with in my grasp. If I stretched my spine and backcombed my hair, I could pass for 5′ 5″. My ambition wasn’t huge, I didn’t want fame and fortune, I just wanted to be a jobbing actress. I wanted to be 5′ 4″ and to pay the bills by working in the profession I loved.
20 + years on, a little tweak of career plans (writing for acting) and where am I?
5′ 2 1/2″ and shrinking.
So, why am I still reaching for 5′ 4″ ? Why, despite all the evidence to the contrary, do I still think I can be taller?
Do you see where I’m coming from here? One day I fully expect to be a puddle of skin with hair, still believing I don’t need the Petite range and that I might, one day, sell a book.
Maybe I should buy some platform shoes. What would that metaphor mean?!