[originaltext]As the offspring of a man and woman who are barely 5 feet 6 inche

As the offspring of a man and woman who are barely 5 feet 6 inches and 5 feet tall respectively, you can probably guess how I made out in the way of stature.
With the exception of a short stint of towering over my third-grade class at a height of about 4 feet 6 inches, I’ve always looked up literally—to, well, pretty much everyone. Shorty, Halfpint, Shortstaek, Little One, Vertically Challenged and (my personal favorite) Ankle Biter are just a few of the endearing monikers that have been repeatedly seared into my memory over the years. I’ve also been likened much more often to Jack rather than Fred, even now that I’m nearly 20 years old.
But growing older has taught me that nicknames and cheap shots are the very least of my worries. Now I have real problems, like not being able to drive my car a safe distance from the steering wheel without pedal extensions. Seeing over the hood is even a bit of a challenge at times.
Inconveniences have been a part of every job I had in high school. From juggling large stacks of ice cream cones while trying to fill the cone racks at Dairy Queen to begging for assistance in filling ice machines while working at a movie theater, I’ve had to count on someone pushing 6 feet tall to come to my rescue.
Like many college students, I, too, love music. At concerts, I can usually be seen jumping up and down sporadically to the beat of a good rock song. But, unlike many college students, I do this because otherwise the concert would be no more exciting than listening to the radio in a large group of sweating, wriggling, bellowing young enthusiasts.