Being Short in Europe: A Comedy of Errors

So, picture this: I’m a short woman of asian descent living in Europe, navigating a world that was clearly built for people who don’t need to carry around a portable step ladder just to reach the top shelf at the supermarket. If you’re also vertically challenged then welcome to my daily reality. Grab a tiny chair (because full-size ones just aren’t built for people like us) and settle in. It’s time for a good laugh at my expense!

Finding Pants That Aren’t Pants-uits
Let’s start with the never-ending struggle of shopping for pants. In Asia, everything is made for people like me. It’s a miracle! I actually fit into jeans without needing to roll up the cuffs like I’m auditioning for a circus clown act. But in Europe? Oh, honey, Europe seems to think everyone is either a giraffe or an elongated human in desperate need of more leg room.

I’m trying on pants that are so long, they could be used as a tent. I mean, I’m a practical woman, so I get creative. I cuff them. I roll them up. I try the whole “stuff them into boots” look. But no matter what I do, I end up looking like an unfortunate casualty of an oversized wardrobe sale. I once even tried to order pants online, and when they arrived, I realised they were literally designed for people who might, I don’t know, need their pants to double as parachutes. Let me tell you, when you spend your entire life living in a world where every pant leg could be a slip-n-slide, you develop an unhealthy relationship with the tailor or very quickly learn how to sew. Mind you, I do everything by hand, because I was too much of a princess to go to sewing classes and learn how to use a sewing machine (I chose arts and crafts instead). I always assumed there would be a nifty tailor or seamstress close by. 

Kitchen Counter Olympics
Next stop: the kitchen, aka “The Land of High Things.” Cooking in Germany was a real sport for short people. I had to stand on tiptoe to work somewhat comfortably on the counter, and then proceed to use every available chair or stool to reach that elusive cabinet shelf where the spices live. Because, naturally, the one place I can never reach is the shelf where the salt, pepper, and garlic powder are stored — essential items, mind you.

I once found myself using a mop as a makeshift pole vault to grab a jar of honey from the top shelf. Spoiler alert: the honey didn’t survive the fall. Neither did my dignity. It was such a relief to move to Portugal and discover everything more to my height. I can finally chop things and not get a crick in my shoulder. 

Supermarket Shenanigans
Ah, supermarkets. A land of mystery, especially when you’re short. The shelves are so high, I feel like I’m competing for a spot on Jeopardy! just to reach the cereal. I often find myself leaping up in a way that could only be described as an awkward interpretive dance move. It’s like I’m trying to do a pirouette while pretending I don’t care that I look ridiculous in front of strangers.

I’ve learned to accept that if I want a specific brand of anything, I either need to befriend someone tall, or just walk up to the employee and beg for help. But even when I muster up the courage, it’s an entire production. “Excuse me, could you please grab that for me?” I ask, pointing to something on the top shelf.

And because I’m polite (maybe too polite), I always add the awkward “I’m short,” like it’s some kind of weird apology. The poor employee always looks at me like they’ve just discovered a new species of human. “Yes, I see that,” they’ll say, with a look that says, “I wish you had a pair of stilts.” Thank goodness for home delivery services… 

Public Transport: The View from Below
Then there’s the joy of public transport. Picture this: you’re crammed in a subway or bus, and every sign is out of your line of sight. You don’t know where you’re going, but the giant heads of everyone around you are blocking any chance of a map or route being visible. It’s like living in a constant state of confusion, with a touch of claustrophobia. The worst part was rush hour when it was SRO, and you realise that you are stuck at that uncomfortable level right below everyone else’s underarms. Summers were particularly difficult because most deodorants seemed to malfunction simultaneously. 

Embracing My Shortcomings
All jokes aside, being a short woman in Europe has taught me a lot about patience and creativity. Sure, I might have to climb onto counters and negotiate with supermarket shelves, but I can always count on my trusty step stool to help me out of a jam. So, here’s to embracing the challenges, laughing at the absurdity, and secretly wishing that one day, all the pants in the world will magically fit me without dragging on the floor like a medieval gown. Until then, I’ll keep living my best (slightly shorter) life, one kitchen cabinet at a time.