The club requires that men be six-foot-two and women be five-foot-ten. It provides social outlets, moral support for tall people--who sometimes feel the sting of verbal jabs about height--and a venue where they can trade secrets on clothing stores, airlines and hotels that accomodate tall people.

You may think this is unnecessary because there are certainly more marginalized groups out there. True--although physical comfort can often be on par with emotional, social or psychological comfort.

Take, for instance, my airplane dilemma. I'm poor enough to afford coach class, so that is where I must buy my ticket. But coach class makes me miserable because I am folded up like a lawn chair and stuck in a seat I couldn't fit in when I was 12 and with no real place to move, especially after the bozo in front of me reclines his seat those precious three inches. He may not think much of taking those three inches, but it means a whole helluva lot to me. If this were a utilitarian calculation, my discomfort would be to his comfort as Harvard's endowment is to my checking account.

Now, I've naturally adapted to this problem. I now only sit on the aisles, and I try to get the emergency exit row when I can. I don't normally like to take 200 peoples' lives into my hand, but I must in order to be comfortable.

I'm sure the other tall people of the world understand my plight on planes. It comes with the territory. Everyone looks up to you and you get used to it.

I'm confident enough not to need the Tall Clubs International, but I do like to know that it's out there. I much prefer the unspoken bonds I have with my fellow tall person--the subway nods, the silent empathy, the knowing gazes.

Besides, I want to keep my secret tricks of the tall to myself. They wouldn't work if every tall person found them out.