Is this a philosophical blog on not being able to reach my goals? No! Is it a blog on not being able to reach out to people? No! Sorry to disappoint you, but this week’s blog is exactly as it says – Can’t Reach. Being vertically challenged with short legs I often find myself in hellacious situations. 

The top shelves in supermarkets are well beyond my reach. Whenever you need someone to help they’re never there. No six footers lurk nearby as I gaze longingly at the food item I really do need. Can I adjust my recipe? Can I buy something else, perhaps a replacement? But that means hunting the lower shelves and if I get down on my hunkers I will fall over. This is a fact and has happened. 

Grabbing the shelf for support is not a good idea. Tins of sardines and salmon (fresh) bounce off my body, bags of rice split and ricochet off my head like a deadly hailstorm. I’ve become a sushi. The rattle and roar soon brings help. (I have a big gob.) Too late. Where were you when I needed you?  

I soon discover the help is not for me. The health and safety policy is being put into action for the benefit of other customers. I’m surrounded by those yellow plastic yokes to ensure other people don’t slip. No-one asks if I’m okay. Really? Who does that? I’m not that small that the staff can’t see me or hear my bleats. How do I get out? I know if I try to step over the SpongeBob-SquarePants-cone-yokes, I will fall. Not being negative here, but hurdling was never my sport. I’m in a quandary. 

Besides, that yellow-bug-eyed-Sponge-creature totally discombobulates me. I mean what kind of people let their children watch a yellow square sponge who lives in Bikini Bottom. Sounds kinda gross to me. (Don’t tell anyone that I’m an avid fan of blue-eyed Anti-SpongeBob who lives in Anti-Bikini Bottom).

After this adventure all I need is comfort food, (always on the bottom shelf), and therapy. Luckily my covid mask is hiding my red-cheeked embarrassment. My posterior bruises are my business.



I’ve spent years hopping trying to reach the top shelf and can no longer hop. My next purchase will be a hooked walking stick whereby I can attack the top shelf with gusto. Sitting on a normal sized chair gives me lower back pain as my legs dangle in mid air. I could sit forward which I have done, but the pain rips through my body reminding me that I need back support for a reason. In the workplace, I used a bin to place my feet on. A small bin obviously, not the huge black dustbins. 3-2-1 And we have lift-off to another cartoon character – Dusty Bin. What planet do these script writers live on?

My second option was to lower the office chair. You know the ones where you have to bounce up and down repeatedly before the seat suddenly sinks down almost catapulting you into the bin. This lowered position was good for a nap. Just the right height to lay my weary head down on the desk. Life is so exciting when you have short legs. 



Not my greatest look – shorts that is, especially when worn with chunky football boots, but I loved being in the football team. No-one told me that running past the ball is not one of the rules. Kicking it before I ran past it probably would have helped.  I did score a goal once and I’m proud of that. Not my fault I can run faster than Speedy Gonzales, the fastest mouse in Mexico. Arriba! Arriba!

As a teenager I loved taking part in the 100 metres race. Considering my long-legged pals only had to take 10 steps to reach the finish line, I’m proud to say I beat them. The one and only Official race I qualified for did not set my short legs pumping around the track. I mean, this was the big one. The Galway Championships which could lead to the Olympics. Instead, the lack of confidence in my head drained from brain to feet and I froze. Start and stutter does not win the race.

Basketball was a miss-miss affair. I never got the ball into the basket. I won’t give up. Someday soon The Phoenix Suns will invite me to play, or at least become their mascot. Now at a certain age I still need to reach stuff. All suggestions are welcome.  


Buying clothes is another pitfall. Petite offerings are still too long. I know I can get whatever shortened, but I’m impatient. Alleluia, crop trousers are in fashion this year. Do not dare buy any until I have filled my personal wardrobe. Your desire to show off your naked, newly shaved ankles, because the sun is shining does not give you the right to deprive me and all of my 5 foot and under sisterhood. By the way you need a few plasters to cover those razor nicks. 

We wee ones need these crop pants. They reach our ankles. We don’t have to shave our ankles. They zoom and zip up our legs perfectly. Go find your own stuff. Crop pants do not suit You! Crop pants make You look fat! Crop pants are now officially only sold to the vertically challenged. It’s our legal right. Part of the constitution in Bikini Bottom. Go and buy your long-legged-skinny-hipster-jeans and leave Our crop pants alone!


Being called Tich, Shorty, Half-Pint, Short-Ass, Squirt, or Shrimp, is not exactly complimentary and gets repetitive. Do you hear me laughing? I do have a name and no, it’s not H which was another version to remind me of my stature. As if I needed reminding. 

I used to wish I could be taller and a brief period in 6 inch heels did a lot for my confidence. As indeed did the chunky platforms until someone said to me that I looked like Daisy Duck. This was followed by sounds of “quack quack”.

Being conscious of having short legs determined what I wore. Because you can guarantee there was always someone to tell me that it didn’t suit me. Tell me – does being vertically challenged give people the right to comment or criticise? 

I will end this blog on a positive note. I’ve reached a certain age where I don’t care that my legs are short or that my bum is too low. Yes, that was another one. If it was low in my 20’s no wonder I’m dragging it around now. I will tie a big red bow to it and wear flowery tight leggings with purple bovver boots.

 “Good things come in small packages,”  and how many of you can be poshly Frenchified as PETITE! So there!





UACHTAR ARD  (I’m more ‘Uachtar’. Google! 








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One Comment

  1. How appropriate Mary! This is such a lovely quote from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, spoken by Helena in act 3, scene 2, referring to her friend Hermia not Hernia!

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