Changing The Lightbulb

The ceiling was high and from a short-persons perspective, unreachable. I asked my brother several times to help me out but he would refuse every time. I can handle this on my own, I would murmur back at him, but the ceiling was for me what the sky is for an ant.

I am not that short I must say. I enjoy exaggerating the disadvantage of being short. People look at me more thoughtfully when I ask them to do something for me. Suddenly, my height is not something normal, but a way to coax people into liking me because I need them for small tasks. Maybe my brother is doing me a favor by not helping me. This way he perhaps believes that I will act more dependently and mature, but being served by people who are sensitive about my height seems godlike and amusing.

But this time I crossed the lines of my own self-infatuation and vanity. It’s been a week since I had no light in my room. I would find my way by turning on the TV at night and reach to things using the light shining from the screen.

Someone will do this for me, I would repeat. Someone will come and change the light bulb.

No one did. But the only one that clearly refused was my brother, everybody else had just better things to do, like more important things.

I will wait for no one now. I took a chair from the dining room because it has more stable chairs. My spinning chair was not really an option giving my height and the lack of experience with doing simply anything.

I bought a light bulb earlier, it was in my left hand while I climbed the chair. The ceiling seemed farther away instead of being closer. I hesitate to call my brother, but no, I can do this.

I stretch my arm as much as possible and I manage to reach the one that refuses to shine upon me. I am on my tip toes, sweating like a pig, forcing my fingers to turn the bulb. I manage to unscrew it and it falls right on my fore-head, landing on the soft carpet. Luckily, it did not break.

The same effort was given to the reverse action. When I unmounted the chair and turned the light on I was honestly, close to tears.

My brother teased me long after this. Mother did not believe I did it at all and father, well father never cared at all.

I continued to be short and hard to refuse. I continued to use my sweet words to enjoy attention still. Sometimes I look at the shining bulb while laying on my bed and force myself to see it as a symbol or metaphor. When I turned the light on, indeed, it looked like i can do anything. I felt a catharses – me changing my life for a better purpose.

But then the teasing and disbelief started. I moved on from this like it never happened.

Maybe it should not have happened at all.





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