The Highs and Lows of City Life

Early this month, Michael M. Grynbaum of The New York Times took a look at New York’s “Bunyanesque” mayor, Bill de Blasio, and how he takes in his new job from his elevated viewpoint. At 6-foot-5â…ž, Mr. de Blasio is the tallest mayor in the city’s modern history, requiring City Hall to make a series of ergonomic adjustments. So we wondered about other New Yorkers, how they navigate the city daily, and whether for them bigness is a burden too. Here are some of the stories â€" edited for space â€" that we heard from New Yorkers, tall or not:

“I am 6’7”, and if I had a nickel for every time I’ve hit my head on a low hanging sign (or narrowly missed doing so) in the subway. My daily trek into the NYC Subway System is full of booby traps.”

Tony Glover, New York

“I stand 5 feet, 5 inches tall. According to a quick Wikipedia search, I’m about as average as it gets for a girl in the U.S. What do I see from my rather unexceptional viewpoint? A lot of armpits in the morning. It seems that the faces of average-height girls are placed just so to align perfectly with the underarm area of average-height men as they grasp the overhead holds in subway cars. A major virtue of winter in New York lies in the widespread use of coats by commuters, rendering normally sweating, fragrant pits into docile heaps of puff. I salute you, goose down.”

Jessie Kohn, South Slope/Greenwood Heights

“I’m 5 foot even and one of the biggest challenges for me on the subway is not the armpits â€" although that is absolutely unpleasant, particularly when someone reaches over my head to grab onto a bar â€" but the fact that I can’t really reach the high bars to hold on when I’m standing up. If I get shoved into the middle of the aisle between the seats, I can only just reach the bar with my fingertips, which is uncomfortable and also doesn’t keep me very steady. So I try really hard to stay toward the edges where I can hold on to the bar as it curves down, but a lot of people don’t seem to get why I won’t move on a crowded train.”

brycercovert, Brooklyn, New York

“At 6’3”, I would say the biggest danger among New York City streets appears during rainy days, and that is the dreaded umbrella. I’ve found my eyes are at perfect level for those cheap little wire eye-pokers to take direct aim at a taller individual â€" even more so for those PGA-style umbrellas which, unless you’re about to hit off the tee in Augusta, I see no need for in a crowded city!”

Zachary Gould, New York

“I’m on the shorter side, 5’6”, and overall it’s really not bad. Easy to squeeze into a packed subway car, nothing’s really out of reach, I never bonk my head on things (except recreationally). I think too that it makes me more approachable, tourists often come up to me out of a whole crowd of pedestrians to ask directions. Also every clothing store has everything in my size, never have to hunt around for clothes that fit.

“The one drawback I’ve found is that many women just won’t consider dating me because of my height, even if they’re about the same height or less. Something about society instructs women that tall men are a better catch. But, irritating as this has been, on balance I’m O.K. with being rejected by people that are that shallow.”

Dan Stackhouse, NYC

“I’m a 5’10” woman who is used to seeing over crowds. As a child, I never worried about losing my mother in department stores as she too was tall, and I could always spot her above the other grown-ups. This perspective is something I never even thought about.

“Then, one day on the 6 train, I found out what it’s like to be short, and I didn’t like it one bit. It was rush hour, and for some reason I was surrounded by very, very tall men in a crowded car â€" so tall I couldn’t even look over their shoulders. It must have been a basketball team, right?

“The feeling of claustrophobia was immediate, and I almost had a panic attack. I stood on my tiptoes, ducked down to see between the gaps between their bodies â€" whatever I could do to regain my sense of place.”

JKF, New York, NY

“At 6’1” I am happy to report that the benefits of being a tall woman typically outweigh the pitfalls. In crowded areas of the city I can always find my friends and they can spot me. I can easily hold on to the railings in a packed subway. Pitfalls: When it rains or snows, I have to dodge the umbrellas of those who are shorter than me to make sure that they don’t hit me in the face. I hear at least once a day ‘Wow you are tall’ or get asked ‘Basketball or Volleyball?‘ (For the record â€" volleyball). Dating can be tricky. But dating in New York City in general, regardless of one’s height, can be torturous.”

Jessica B, Chelsea

“As an adult male of perfectly average height and weight â€" someplace between 5’10” and 5’11” and unerringly within a few pounds of 165 â€" I’ve made an effort to take active pleasure in my basic shape being the model for train seats, office ergonomics, door handles, and that most beautiful thing: the bar ledge shaped to hold your forearms as you lean against it.

“Signs that this my-size-fits-all approach to design is (hopefully, as it is both discriminatory and simply lazy design) on its way out: My statistically average frame is no longer cupped on the subway but now slides freely along the bench seats on newer cars and is helped along by the low drag of new clothing that, increasingly, I can no longer simply purchase in size medium without bothering to try on.

“My most entertaining attempt to capitalize on an unremarkable height is probably my tendency to slightly underreport my height while online dating, hoping to surreptitiously snag a Brownie point or two for nimbly clearing the bar I’ve just lowered when I show up a bit taller than expected, or at least no shorter.”

Peter, Greenpoint

Sleepless in New York

Victor Kerlow

Dear Diary:

Oh Hypnos, god of sleep, how have I so offended thee that the gate to your garden is closed? It is 3:30 a.m. and I finally cave and swallow a Valium. I stand in front of my living room window counting the cones of streetlights that run down West End Avenue like a strand of pearls on a velvet cloth. They merge going south and form a chain that narrows down to a thin yellow pencil line past 59th Street.

A tugboat puffs snub-nosed and self-important up the river. A window across the streetlights up. An old woman in loose braids and a blue flannel bathrobe stands holding a Kleenex to her mouth, crying. She suddenly stops and stares at me angry and ashamed, then snaps off the light.

I move to the couch and read two chapters of “The Glass Key” while I wait for my fix. The muscles of my back start to loosen; Hypnos is forgiving; the gate door slowly opens. I sigh, an addict’s guilt-ridden relief. My crumpled bed calls.

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