So, you’ve decided to read my column, huh? Probably not because of my sassy intro. Or that classy title my lovely editor has managed to come up with this time. No, I’m pretty sure it was that sexy, breathtaking picture of me lurking slightly down and to the right. The one that made you mutter those three fateful words: “What a fox.”

Yeah, it’s true. But there’s a little problem with that picture: It makes me look tall. How, you ask, does an un-Photoshopped black and white headshot make your tiny self look, well, not quite so tiny? A genius photographer, that’s how.

But for some reason, whenever one of the three people that actually reads this thing recognizes me on campus, they always manage to throw in a reassuring, “I love your column, but wow, I thought you were a lot taller in your picture!” Aw, gee, thanks.

You know, five feet tall is really not that short. Heck, three of my housemates are all within two inches of me. But apparently, on this campus of tree people, five feet is basically an anomaly and, sometimes, even a problem.

There has been a ton of crap that has happened to me because of my height. And you know what? It could all have easily been resolved, had I had a tall (and gorgeous) man in my life.

Crap Occurrence #1: About 4/5 of my house is on a reasonably similar scale of small as I. And the other 1/5 prefers to avoid me at all costs. You can see where the importance of a step stool in this house would come into play. Heck, that thing is basically sacred for us. That being said, one morning, we discovered that one of our housemates had some company that night. Being the civilized, respectful and non-invasive housemates that we are, three of us decided that it would be a good idea to climb the fire escape and peek through her window. You know, just to make sure she was OK and junk. So, out we went, all-powerful stool in hand, and climbed up the fire escape. Needless to say, hot date left as we were struggling up the staircase and scandalous roommate heard us, loud and clear, as we were ... well, struggling up the staircase. So, in the house we went. And outside the step stool stayed. The next day, we went to go look for the stool. And it was gone. Who the hell steals a step stool? I have no idea. But there obviously has to be some 4’10” kid living on our block that needed it a lot more than we did.

Crap Occurrence #2: So, I was frying up some chicken. (I swear, my column headshot does not hide some lurking third chin. Honest.) I’m not sure if you all are familiar with giant pots of hot grease at high temperatures, but there’s a little thing called a grease fire that proves problematic during these circumstances. And us, being the genius house that we are, decided to put the fire extinguisher in the cabinet above the stove. Just out of reach without that stupid step stool. Of course, whenever something goes up in flames, I do what all responsible people do: Freak out first, act irrationally later. So up the stove I went, carefully navigating the gallon of boiling, flaming grease, to get the extinguisher. And then it happened: I knocked a glass of water into the pot. Needless to say, the grease exploded into a 30 foot high fireball, burning my rental house to the ground. Oh, wait. That might have been on Mythbusters.

Crap Occurrence #3: I drive a baby blue Volkswagen Bug. Now, this may sound ridiculous, but that vehicle is a man magnet. I cannot drive through Collegetown without seeing at least 20 guys stare at my ride and at least one fall on his face for doing it. Now, I’m pretty sure I don’t get those kind of looks walking around campus, so it’s got to be the car. Unfortunately, after the Bug — I like to call her The Unconquerable Lola — broke down for the 6,403,406th time, I decided it was time for a new ride. Seeing as I live in the world’s largest and longest winter wonderland, I figured that an SUV would have been a good option. Maybe this was a bit of a leap from my convertible beetle. But believe me that after spending a winter in that car, you too would be saying, “Screw the environment! Give me some 4WD stat!” I went to some car dealerships in town to test out their models and came out with this conclusion: There is no such thing as a five-footer driving an SUV. I mean, it’s awkward enough being 19 and hopping into a brand new ride with a strange, car dealing man. I’m pretty sure I got my driver’s license in Florida, which basically means I can’t drive. Throw in the tiny, insignificant fact that I can’t reach the darn pedals, and you’ve got yourself a problem. To top it off, I had to move the seat so close to the steering wheel that my boobs, being disproportionately large in comparison to my height, were driving more than my hands were. Needless to say, I shelled out the money to repair my bug. Hopefully, my butt warmers don’t die out on me, because this winter is going to be hell in a hand-basket in that car.

Clearly, all these problems could have been avoided with a tall man around. But, to be honest, I’ve much gotten used to the challenges of tininess over the years.

Sure, I have days when I wish I had a few inches. But as my good friend once told me, “I wish I was six feet tall with a 12 inch penis, Cristina, but we can’t always get what we want.”

Cristina Stiller is a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences. She may be reached at cstiller@cornellsun.com. Believe You Me appears alternate Mondays this semester.