Tall Tales
Back when achy knees roused me nightly out of dreams, I didn’t realize that this would be the least of the pain.
I shot up in clusters of inches, it seemed, over summer or winter breaks. Back to school, I was arranged in class photos in the back among the boys.
I stood 5-foot-7 by age 12. By 14, basketball coaches were hanging out on the asphalt watching me “throw bricks,” yet still eager to recruit me. You never knew. I was 5-foot-9 and they saw great potential in my limbs and loft.
I grew my final few inches in college, and now measure about 5 feet, 11 inches. Not startlingly tall for a woman, but tall enough to frequently invite sympathy from women of another era. (“How tall? Oh, you poor thing. I bet the little boys wouldn’t ask you out on dates?”) Or inquiries about the modern opportunities for a pro basketball career. But height has never really been much of an issue--until it comes to clothes.
Growing up, my mother, who at 5-foot-7 3/4 (that three-quarters was important to her) was considered tall for her generation, dragged me from one “tall gal” shop to another. Shelly’s Tall Girl was a favorite. There, I stared into my future: dowdy drapes in dusky shades of gray, navy, black and brown that were supposed to minimize the giantess effect. Shoes looked less like fashion for feet than lifeboats large enough to rescue a family of four. No heels. Only flats, with as little hardware as possible. The idea was to just blend in. That is, if you got the slouch and slump just right.
Never. My mother saw to that. At tall girl shops, she simply purchased the basics. The accessories she gathered elsewhere, to complete her look, at once unique and forward. Long-enough black slacks, straight skirts or jumpsuits served as the anchor while blouses, vests, scarves in livelier shades drew the eye away from any wardrobe imperfections--too short pants, my own short waist.
I’m a good study. But by the time I’d matured enough to use the tall gal shops for wardrobe foundations, few were still around. Somewhere between the ‘70s and ‘80s they’d disappeared, gone the way of most free-standing neighborhood boutiques squashed by the power of the mall-chains and department stores.
Twenty years later, this still poses a very serious problem. Especially when it comes to slacks, skirts, drop-waist dresses. Don’t even think about stirrup pants. Even athletic wear (running tights and warmups) presents hurdles. With most of my height in my legs, buying pants off the rack is just about impossible, unless the hem is ample enough for a tailor to work with. And even that is an imperfect science.
For example, pants with cuffs (especially corduroys) are completely out of the question. It’s very, very difficult to get rid of the trace of the line where the original crease lay, try as I may with an iron and starch.
When I complain, people often don’t believe me, quoting stats about the growing average height of Americans. And, of course, look at all those models who are way above 5-foot-7--they somehow find something to get gussied up in.
Early on, I began cruising the men’s departments. In the ‘70s, when crisply pressed white painters’ pants were the craze, I was saved. Even though the waist sizes were never small enough to go with my 36-inch inseam, I could cinch the waist with one of those Army-style belts dyed a pastel shade and never be accused of “waiting for the flood.”
Around the same time French jeans were the rage, and they were never long enough, even though some of my friends could hack off enough hem fabric to fashion a matching denim clutch, or simply adopt the cool pose of walking on the excess. I was ready to settle for something that, at the very least, covered my ankles.
As an adult, I find very little has changed. As I buzz through rack after rack, I see that more designers are catering to women with particular clothing challenges, from the petite to the full-figured. And men can shop in any number of specialized big and tall stores. But women who top off at 5-foot-8 or more are marooned. Where are the tall gal chains for ‘90s sensibilities? The smattering of stores for women who wear “larger sizes” don’t focus on length.
I’ve learned to work around the inconvenience, but it takes a great deal of creativity. Once in a while, a trend is kind. The return of the Laura Petrie pedal-pusher. The leggings craze of the late ‘80s and ‘90s, paired with boots or flats and topped with tunics and drapey men’s sweaters, makes for a long, sleek silhouette. (Although my mother always comments: “I think you forgot to put your pants on. . . .”)
Men’s trousers work wonders--vintage or new--be they tuxedo pants with satin seams, suspendered pinstripes, or a simple gabardine. Topped by a crisp white or bold-tone (cobalt blue or fuchsia) blouse, with a funky neckpiece and the right shoes, they articulate a feminine statement. (I even own tails, which I pair with a black satin short skirt to ring in the New Year.)
Some designer lines are kind: Calvin Klein has always made pants (jeans and trousers) that fall to that magical place, fabric resting at the top of my feet! Eddie Bauer has leggings for tall gals that snuggle near the ankle (the catalog offers a range of garments for women 5-foot-7 or taller). Spiegel boasts several different size groups including tall (so tall that I now own a smart navy trench coat, the hem of which I can actually trip over if not careful). The Gap now carries special sizes (inquire behind the counter). And San Francisco-based CP Shades challenges even endless-legged me with billowy skirts and pants that--depending on the fabric and cut--have a Moroccan or queenly Renaissance feel.
We’ve learned. Slumping or slouching won’t make your pants longer, even if that’s your impulse after taking turns through several megamalls and coming up empty-handed. The upside is, when people compliment you on your unique outfit, to which you offhandedly answer, “Oh, it’s just something I threw together.” You really mean it. Because when it comes to clothes, especially for us high-visibility gals, one certainly doesn’t want to throw up bricks.
