No, I don’t play basketball. Six foot ten. The weather up here is fine. Yes, I’ve always been tall. Yes, my brother is also tall.
These are the answers to questions I get at a bare minimum three times a week from strangers. The – I’m sure – well-meaning people who want to stop me on the street going about my day, take out my headphones and endure their commentary on my physical appearance.
The first one was asked by a prime minister the first two times I met him. But usually it comes when I’m using a self-checkout at Woolies, or minding my own business at the pub.
I can sense when a question is coming – people stare, or stop and look up.
It is such a regular occurrence that 99% of the time I just shrug it off, answer and make a quick exit. Friends who see people begin the routine get far more confrontational about it on my behalf.
While people are generally aware that commenting on facets of someone’s physical appearance is rude, tallness seems to be fair game.
Society tends to view being tall as a positive attribute for men, so I can see why some people think it’s socially acceptable. But it does have a way of othering the subject every time it is brought up.
Especially when those who can’t sense how disinterested I am want a photo or want to compare their height to mine.
Tall people already pay a tax if they want adequate leg room on flights but this incredibly boring and repetitive conversation feels like a tax on life.
I know I’m not alone. The Icelandic Eurovision contestant Daði Freyr – who is the same height as me – released a song about the plight of the tall man. As he says: “Wow, that’s so interesting to me”.
