Ben Franklin said that the two things you can count on in life are death and taxes. Ben was wrong. It turns out there’s a third universal certainty if we’re lucky enough to age: Shrinking. Most of us begin losing height after age 40.

My shrinkage has been a hard fall.

I was considered tall for approximately 92.7% of my life. I was 5′ 9″ in the seventh grade – age 12. With my mother’s height being a half-inch shy of 6 feet, I trying to imagine myself as a tall woman. That was terrifying, especially when the 12-year-old boys came to my chin.

My mother harped on me to stand up straight. “Don’t’ worry, those boys will grow. Tall is good. You will learn the advantages.”

Although I had to be talked into believing, I eventually accepted that maybe I wasn’t a freak. My height slowly began to help in little ways. Longer legs helped on the basketball court and longer arms helped me cover our field hockey goal. I could reach things on high shelves. I seemed stronger than the smaller girls.

By the time I married at 25, I was comfortable with my height, and a little more confident. I walked through life a contented 5’9″-ish. If I was gradually dwindling away, I didn’t notice. Then the shrink gremlins arrived.

In Mom’s late life, she moaned that she’d lost an inch or two. It turned out to be three. She wanted facts, so we measured. We were both 5’8″. She was devastated and I wasn’t happy, having sacrificed an inch and change.

I had a dear friend, a dynamic, vibrant older woman, of normal small stature. Jo lived in New York City. She retired from her business in her mid-80s, and still walked a mile a day into her 90s.Then she bumped into the shrink gremlins. She began to refer to herself as the “Incredible shrinking woman.” As time went by, she was smaller at every visit. When she passed at age 99, she was so tiny I could have put her in my pocket.

And now, I’m dwindling rapidly.

I’d understand if the vertebrae all decided to squeeze together…to get cozier as they age. But no, they had to involve close relatives, like my shoulders, my neck, and my upper back. I woke up one day with a totally different profile, the scientifically named “forward head syndrome” which lops off an inch all by its self. I think the rounding shoulders plan to merge below my chin. And the dowager’s hump? Fuggedaboudit. They all add up to shrinkage.

Recently, I was gabbing with a small group talking about the advantages of height and high heels. One friend made the casual comment, “Marcy, you probably remember. You used to be tall.”

Did she just say “Used to be?” I’m not still tall? OMG. My head still thinks I am, but my body now says. “Nyet. No more tall for you.” How did this happen?

Well, two back surgeries and three knee replacements probably lead the answer pack. The rest fall on genetics, bad habits, and old age. I can’t even blame osteoporosis. Don’t know how I fended that off.

But the shrink gremlins have had their way. Little everyday experiences tell the story. Our bank has labeled height marks on its interior doors. I’m assuming it is so their security cameras can pinpoint the departing robber’s height. Just recently I noticed that instead of staring straight at the 5’5″ marker at eye level that I was looking up at it. I stopped at the door and stretched as much as I could, and it didn’t get better.

I can no longer reach anything on supermarket top shelves. I used to help shorter people.

The cabinet comfortably atop my built-in microwave holds the olive oil, vinegars and such. Now I call Dear Richard or grab the step stool. I’ve been thinking about a major kitchen reorganization, but honestly don’t know where I would move things to.

The gremlins have fouled up many dinner preparations. Recently I used a grabber to pull down the box of linguine off the top shelf. I must have squeezed a little too hard because the end opened on the descent, spewing 3/4 of a pound of pasta strands across the west end of my kitchen.

I’m now learning what so many of my smaller friends have known all their lives: life is more challenging for the short, the bent, and the shriveled up.

Finally, totally frustrated, I had Dear Richard measure me on Sunday. Three times. Standing at my most stretched, chin-up, proud stature, I managed to get to 5’4 and 3/8.” I almost cried, but then again, it’s like everything else at this age. Nothing is what it was. It is what it is. Diminishing. Rapidly.

The shrinking gremlins no longer visit. They’ve moved in.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com.