I took a kickboxing class, my boxing gloves sit on my desk at The Daily and I have a punching bag at home. Overcompensating? I don’t think so.

I’m a 4-foot-9-inch tall female who is sick and tired of short jokes. My friends will tell you I’m not generally a violent person, but I’m getting there.

I am routinely offered children’s menus at restaurants, while I could easily enjoy a drink at these same establishments. Perhaps wearing tighter shirts would make waiters think twice, because I would be one well-endowed child.

I feel I can never carry the label of pretty or—on those really good days—sexy. Instead, I’m “cute,” or worse, “adorable.”

As a barista I had a customer ask me if I were a midget (the correct term is “little person”). Many others feel the need to clue me into the fact that I’m short on a daily basis. Well, that’s why the ground is so close. Golly, I had no idea!

A person’s stature is not a measure of his or her maturity or intelligence.

My shortness does not mean that I am less mature or more naïve than someone taller. Extra height does not entitle you to more respect. That extra height also does not give you the liberty to pick me up like a doll.

Being petite does bring its rewards. I’m travel-sized. I curl up comfortably in airline seats. I am not intimidating, which helps me establish a rapport with interviewees and babies. My calves are shapely because I am constantly on my tiptoes.

However, sometimes I can’t shake feeling that of powerlessness has followed me through life. My smallness is an unequivocal factor. Again, I compensate. I enjoy leadership positions and, when stressed, can be a bit of a control freak. One of my motivations to study journalism was my desire to fight for the underdog.

Sometimes in dreams I fight invisible monsters, but my fists are useless. Usually I wake up to find that I’ve rolled over onto my hands and they’re asleep.

Each day I prod myself to stand up a little taller. Pretty soon people will be asking if I play basketball.