I’m not a tall person. I’ve accepted it. Step stools are stashed in all the nooks of my house. The bottom two shelves of my kitchen cabinets sag under the weight of all my dishes; the top shelves are dead to me. Jokes happen. Reaching things does not happen.
My husband is regular-heighted. He lives without considering the challenges I face. He often puts the mayonnaise at the back of the top shelf of the refrigerator thus rendering it useless to me. He put the light bulbs on the top shelf of the closet. They may as well not exist. His Jeep is “raised,” which basically means someone decided to put it a ridiculous distance above the ground. Which is why Drake was surprised one morning when we walked out the front door together and Mike’s Jeep was the only car in the driveway besides Drake’s car.
“How are you getting to work?” Drake asked.
“Dad took my car so he could put gas in it, so I’m driving his car.”
“Do you need help getting in?” he smirked.
That kid is such a sassy pants.
(But, yes, I kind of do need a little help getting in.)