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The Guardian - AU
The Guardian - AU
Lifestyle
Eleanor Burnard

My petty gripe: bar stools – have we not suffered enough?

Illustration of a bar stool falling
‘I want to sit down at a table when I eat. I shouldn’t have to do a high jump or flow through a yoga sequence to scoff down an overpriced burger.’ Illustration: Victoria Hart/Guardian design

Being short comes with sizeable challenges. My view at concerts is almost always blocked. I own more pinchy heels than comfy flats. Finding jeans that fit properly is a headache. But most importantly: bar stools. They are inescapable.

I was reminded of this deep-seated hatred during this year’s Melbourne fashion week. I arrived unfashionably late and had to sit behind the front row – which didn’t upset me, I was truly happy to just be there! But what did annoy me was the only chair choice available: a bar stool that came up to my waist.

I was wearing platforms and a short dress, leaving me with two equally humiliating outcomes. I could either flash my undies to those behind me, or twist my ankle attempting to leap on to the seat. Unsatisfied with either option, I ended up leaning against it and hoped that I came across as nonchalant and cool rather than pathetic.

So now I say, on behalf of all short people everywhere: enough is enough!

Must I be forced to dangle my feet off the ground like some child, all because I wanted to sit down and drink a chai latte? Have we not suffered enough, what with those condescending monikers like “fun-sized” we’ve been dealing with for years?

I learned pretty quickly that the world isn’t built with us shorties in mind. Not when you’re a Shetland pony in a paddock made for thoroughbreds. But aren’t bar stools a scourge on us all in society, regardless of height?

Because throw a lack of back support into the mix and you’ve got a bona fide torture device, specialising entirely in humiliation and pain. They force us to contort our spines until we resemble that of an overcooked prawn; hunched over and completely undignified.

I don’t understand why we, as a collective species, have not rid ourselves of this agonising apparatus. Who the hell wants this? I want to sit down at a table when I eat. I shouldn’t have to do a high jump or flow through a yoga sequence to scoff down an overpriced burger.

After all, stool is just another word for shit. And I don’t care if I’m being petty; it’s simply impossible for me to be the bigger person.

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