In the 1980s, a young woman publicly declared all men under 1.70 meters to be "handicapped." This statement triggered an avalanche of responses from unmarried women across the nation.
After persistent efforts to measure my height, I reached the inescapable conclusion that I was permanently "handicapped." Back then, I was a callow young chap, full of daring and foolhardiness, determined to challenge this prejudice against shorter men. By hook or by crook, I married a woman who was 1.74 meters tall. This astonishing tour de force greatly bolstered the morale and esteem of my fellow "handicapped" men.
However, only after she was enticed into matrimony did I begin to feel self-inflicted anguish. My overreaction not only failed to end my "permanent handicap" but also gave me a lifetime of regret. I was deprived of the simple pleasure of walking with my arm around my wife's neck, as it would lift my feet off the ground and, worse, expose my belly button to public view.
Now, when we go out together, with my arms clinging to her shoulders, I resemble a monkey hanging from a pole, being dragged along the street.
In excruciating agony, I often ponder: if I could live my life again, I would never try to eliminate any prejudice, for there is always a price to pay.