Unlike (most) plants, man has been given the gift of mobility. He can jump, skip, run and dance. Like that Beach Boys’ song, he gets around. And as a child, we witness man taking the fullest advantage of this agility, feeling out his body in all manners of contortion, pushing his penis in until it disappears. But when boy becomes man, his acrobatics retard. Man stops jumping and frolicking and starts "walking" and "sitting." For better or worse, man adapts to gravity. Of course, there are some men that never grow up. From a steroid overdose in high school, or a hyperactive thyroid gland, these men stay little forever. Inferior versions of ourselves, almost. But boy are they cute! Running in their little sneakers, talking with their little mouths, crying their little tears—each time I see a tiny person doing something in it's tiny way, I can’t help but cry out in laughter! Ha ha! Who are these miniature men that God has given us for our delight?

Unfortunately, these tiny people do tiny things with too little frequency. Like a fat girl who has learned to keep from swinging her arms so that she might not be noticed, the Little have acquired their own defense mechanisms. And this negative response is no small matter. Every time we offer a little person a high chair, mistaking them for an infant, or fart in their faces, mistaking them for a fart receptacle!—each represents the death of some future funny action, a “little” antic that would have normally been performed without reservation. Because the truth is, these little tykes have feelings too, albeit itty-bitty feelings, but feelings nonetheless. And when those feelings are insulted, the body economizes, and puts off some tiny happy action in favor of protecting its tiny dignity. Witness the account of a small man that prompted my thoughts on this subject tommorow morning:

Monday, and I am on the bus to work. In front of me, a little man and his master are chatting quietly. The little man is standing, gripping the safety rails, but barely, and the master is sitting, talking to a woman. As luck would have it, the bus was very crowded, and I was within earshot of the conversation. The little man began, reminiscing to his master of a former bus ride, when it was less crowded, and when he was able to climb with great dexterity from one end of the bus to another.

"Master, do you remember?" he asked.

With another question, his master responded: “You mean like a little monkey?”

If there were bells attached to this tiny man’s heart, the sheer velocity of its descent would have sent the bus passengers into a tizzy over their volume. Yet his sadness was silent, and only I could see how much he was affected, interpreting his facial movements with their tiny lines to denote some sad inner monologue.

“I know god made me to be a little monkey. And I do love acting the part. But it hurts me greatly when my size is acknowledged so condescendingly. I shall never act like a monkey again. In fact, I might kill myself. I bet monkeys never do that.”

With my adroit interpretation of this pygmy’s sentiment, I shuddered for fear of its implications. Tinyness was becoming a source of shame for these baby-men, and I would soon witness fewer tiny acts. How had I not realized this before? Too preoccupied with my day to day activities, I had neglected the preservation of a great source of laughter for me and my companions. My anticipation of a world of stoic pygmies sent me into a daze, and I anxiously dreamt up a plan to restore the hilarity, nay dignity, to the business of tiny movement…