walker on Nostr: BARRON’S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: “I always knew it might be an issue. The numbers ...
BARRON’S INTERNAL MONOLOGUE:
“I always knew it might be an issue. The numbers were clear from the beginning—NASA’s upper limit for height caps at 6’4”. I’m 6’7”. Three inches. Just three inches. In the grand scheme of things, it’s nothing, right? The universe is vast beyond comprehension, distances measured in light-years, and yet… here I am, stuck on Earth because of three inches.
I could solve their trajectory calculations in my sleep. Orbital mechanics? Easy. I can conceptualize complex fluid dynamics in zero-g faster than most people can tie their shoes. But none of that matters when your femurs are too long to fit in a Starship command module. I’ve run the simulations; I’d cramp up, circulation would suffer, and emergency egress would be a nightmare.
It’s frustrating. I mean, why aren’t these things designed for outliers? They plan for redundancy in systems, triple-check tolerances, yet when it comes to the people who dream of space—of really understanding it—they stick to averages. It’s as if the boundary of space isn’t the Kármán line; it’s an arbitrary height limit on a bureaucratic spreadsheet.
Of course, now things are different. Father is president again. And while I’d rather do this without any special treatment, it’s ridiculous to let bureaucracy stand in the way of progress. I’ll insist that father speak with Elon to make adjustments. He’ll understand. He’s always talking about Mars, and let’s be honest—this is really just prudent planning. Lower gravity means people will stretch out; it’s a physiological inevitability. What happens when we get there and everyone’s 6’5” and they realize their precious little suits are obsolete? Someone needs to think ahead. Someone tall enough to see over the horizon.
I’ve thought about ways around it—designing my own suit, building a private mission, lobbying for changes in policy. But the reality is, the space industry isn’t kind to anomalies. It’s built on precision and predictability, and I… well, I’m an outlier in more ways than one.
Still, I can’t help but feel a pang of injustice. That something as trivial as my height stands between me and the cosmos. But that’s the beauty of being in my position now—if anyone can do something about it, it’s me. Father will listen. Elon will listen. This isn’t just about me; it’s about the future of tall people in space.
“I always knew it might be an issue. The numbers were clear from the beginning—NASA’s upper limit for height caps at 6’4”. I’m 6’7”. Three inches. Just three inches. In the grand scheme of things, it’s nothing, right? The universe is vast beyond comprehension, distances measured in light-years, and yet… here I am, stuck on Earth because of three inches.
I could solve their trajectory calculations in my sleep. Orbital mechanics? Easy. I can conceptualize complex fluid dynamics in zero-g faster than most people can tie their shoes. But none of that matters when your femurs are too long to fit in a Starship command module. I’ve run the simulations; I’d cramp up, circulation would suffer, and emergency egress would be a nightmare.
It’s frustrating. I mean, why aren’t these things designed for outliers? They plan for redundancy in systems, triple-check tolerances, yet when it comes to the people who dream of space—of really understanding it—they stick to averages. It’s as if the boundary of space isn’t the Kármán line; it’s an arbitrary height limit on a bureaucratic spreadsheet.
Of course, now things are different. Father is president again. And while I’d rather do this without any special treatment, it’s ridiculous to let bureaucracy stand in the way of progress. I’ll insist that father speak with Elon to make adjustments. He’ll understand. He’s always talking about Mars, and let’s be honest—this is really just prudent planning. Lower gravity means people will stretch out; it’s a physiological inevitability. What happens when we get there and everyone’s 6’5” and they realize their precious little suits are obsolete? Someone needs to think ahead. Someone tall enough to see over the horizon.
I’ve thought about ways around it—designing my own suit, building a private mission, lobbying for changes in policy. But the reality is, the space industry isn’t kind to anomalies. It’s built on precision and predictability, and I… well, I’m an outlier in more ways than one.
Still, I can’t help but feel a pang of injustice. That something as trivial as my height stands between me and the cosmos. But that’s the beauty of being in my position now—if anyone can do something about it, it’s me. Father will listen. Elon will listen. This isn’t just about me; it’s about the future of tall people in space.