I'm Shrinking

At 5'8", I'm not tall by any means. Yes, I might tower over Peter Dinklage, who plays Tyrion Lannister in the "Game of Thrones" TV series, but not by much. I treasure each and every one of my centimeters, as limited in quantity as they are. So, it came as quite a shock recently when I came to the realization that I'm shrinking.

Each and every morning when I wake up, I leap out of bed like I'm the star of the Bolshoi Ballet, stand up straight to maximize my height, thump my chest with a clenched fist, and thoroughly admire my plaid-pajama-clad 5'8" physical form in the bedroom mirror. And although my wife groans and pulls the covers over her head at this point, I tell you truthfully, I like what I see. I am 21st Century man. Glorious, and without fault.

Proudly, I parade to the shower to buff my body to its maximum shine, and after lovingly, carefully, drying myself with a large, soft towel (which is then donated to charity), I clothe myself in fashionable casual business attire and take another good, long look at my form in the full-length bathroom mirror. Then, with sparkling teeth and every hair in place, smelling vaguely of a manly variety of soap, I cheerfully call to my wife and say, "What a beautiful day! My appetite is ferocious! What is on the breakfast menu for today?"

My wife groans and pulls the covers over her head.

Fending for myself, I gather a bowl and a spoon and choose to break my fast on whatever delicacies I can find in our cupboard. I choose some breakfast cereal, pour on the milk, dust it with sugar, and with a large mouthful I begin to crunch loudly and read the morning paper.

"Didn't your doctor say you had to cut back on the salt?" my wife inquires, shaking the now-empty Tupperware container that used to house potato chips.

Not wishing to embarrass myself, I pour on more sugar, finish the bowl with a determined gusto, glance at the clock, and see that it's time to bid a hasty goodbye.

"No time for conversation, my dear." I say. "I must be off!"

Ever the helpful helpmate, she thrusts my coffee mug and lunch bag into my waiting hands and fairly pushes me out the door to my waiting car. I give her a quick peck on the cheek and wish her a happy day.

She groans and heads back to bed.

Positioning myself in the driver's seat, I tweak the position of the rear-view mirror slightly, and drive off to my place of employment.

Later that day, one of my female coworkers comments, "Steve, you look a little shorter today."

I shake my head and smile and say, "Ah, no. I am still 5'8" tall, as I was yesterday and the day before that, all the way back through the years to that fateful day when I reached full maturity. However, although my vertical measurements not be what current society considers "tall", I do possess a reliable height, if I say so myself, one that serves me well and does not waver. I am just as tall today as I was the day before."

Curiously, my coworker groans, backs away, and quickly disappears into the recesses of her cubicle.

As the day ends, I head to my vehicle for the drive home. Again, I position myself in the driver's seat and glance at the rear-view mirror. Curious. It appears to be positioned for someone slightly taller than myself. I think nothing more of it, and head home.

However, the very next morning, as I sit in the driver's seat and prepare to head back to work, I see that the rear-view mirror has once again been adjusted for someone slightly shorter than myself. Is someone else driving this car without my knowledge? If so, it must stop!

And again, later that day, as I prepare for the drive home, I see that the mirror has been adjusted for someone taller than myself. How can this be happening?

And it occurs to me. There is no one else. It's me.

I'm shrinking.

I ponder this on my way home, feeling strangely insecure and vulnerable as I drive past the Big & Tall Men's shop and a local movie house playing a revival of "Attack of the 50-Foot Woman".

There's no denying it. I am, slowly, gradually, inevitably, shrinking. My skeletal frame is compressing more and more with each passing day. The weight of the ages, or at least my own age, is upon my shoulders, bearing down on me and pushing me toward an unstoppable digression: 5'7", 5'6", 5'5". Or less.

At home, at bedtime, I share my personal revelations with my dear wife. There is no response at first, and then she groans and pulls the covers over her head.

In bed that night, my mind drifts, and as I prepare to dream, I wonder for a moment if Peter Dinklage could use a stand in.