The seven-foot ceilings of my apartment scrape my head as I come down the stairs. The shower head comes up to my chest. The blankets on my bed have to remain untucked so my feet can hang off the end. The other day I frightened an old woman half to death when I stood up next to her on the bus; I’m pretty sure I saw her cross herself.

I’m thinking of going to the Netherlands, the average height is around six foot. I’d still be on the tall side, but it seems like those are my people. I’m just about four standard deviations outside of the average height for U.S. adult men, and lately, I’ve begun to feel the impact of my height in the most unusual places.

My communism style apartment building, where I’ve been living for the past few months, was clearly built by the USSR in the 50s because it is not accommodating for people over six foot, much less six foot eight. The shower head comes up to my chest, cleaning myself is a struggle.

I’ve given myself more near concussions by whacking my head on the ceiling than I’ve ever gotten playing a contact sport. Our kitchen, made conveniently for one-half of a person, has these drawers that swing out halfway into the kitchen; it’s as though my head wants to collide with them like it has its own masochistic agenda.

I have to special order my shoes and pants; they make stores for the “Big & Tall,” but I don’t see any stores for the Tall and toothpick.

They don’t stock shoes above a size thirteen in most stores, so I’m reduced to shopping online for my size sixteen flippers. I couldn’t tell you how many people have commented on my shoe size, or general length, because it happens every time I meet someone new.

“Do you play basketball?”

No.

“Well, you should.”

What an astute observation. My first job was changing light bulbs at a grungy bar in upstate NY, my job title: Tall light bulb guy. As an ongoing joke in my family, I’ve been branded “little Chris,” a nickname that carried over from my childhood as a result of having the same name as my father. Now I’m the tallest in my family, and probably on the east coast; the irony doesn't escape me.

I could really capitalize on the tall guy Halloween costumes; I’ve been told more than once I should dress up as the jolly green giant. During the winter holidays, my height is the substitute to buying a ladder, I put the star on the tree because I’m as tall as the tree. With great height comes great star-hanging responsibility.

So if you ever need someone to change your light bulbs, I’m your guy.