Galvin crop

Turns out, I’m less of a man than I used to be.

And since I pride myself on being an accountable, emotionally mature, acceptor of fate and responsibility, I blame my doctor for what has happened.

There I was, undergoing a perfectly cromulent six-month eval recently when, as a matter of course, I was asked to stand straight against a wall so that my height could be verified for my double top-secret personal record.

“No tippy-toes,” I was warned.

No problem, I thought. I’d been the same height since high school — at about the time we stopped measuring using the accepted scientific tools of the day … a pencil, my mother’s yardstick and a door frame.

Over time, I’d read, we tend to shrink a bit — in the way shirts tend to shrink when you put on a few pounds — so I had adjusted accordingly when asked for my official height.

“Wait … what?” I responded incredulously when I was informed that some newfangled modern technology had determined how tall I now was.

Or, rather, how sh … sho … shor … not tall.

It appeared, momentarily, that I had lost an inch and three-quarters. That would not stand; so, I did what anyone who has felt short-changed would do — I demanded a recount.

Same result.

My first thought was that my driver’s license — scratch that, my Real ID — would now receive questionable looks should I ever get pulled over and asked by an officer to step outside the car.

“If he’s lying about that …” I can hear them thinking.

And what about TSA agents, hotel clerks, grocery checkers and any others who ask to see your identification? I already get arched eyebrows when requesting to be afforded senior discounts — although, truth be told, that doesn’t bother me so much.

Sure, there’s some solace in knowing that when I say “every inch of my body aches,” I’m actually in less pain than before, but not enough to avoid feeling, well, somewhat diminished.

Abraham Lincoln, when asked how long someone’s legs should be, responded they should be “long enough to reach the ground” — which was easy enough for him to say, what with being 6’ 4” and in no danger of being called “Shrinkin’ Lincoln” by a bullying political foe … even if he were to lose an inch, and three-quarters.

I mean, I’m still eligible to board the “It’s A Small World” ride at Disney, but this height of indignity comes at a particularly awkward time for me as it is — since I’ve also have started losing circumference.

For which I also blame my doctor.

According to my bathroom scale — there’s no way I’m trusting the newfangled modern technology in the exam area — I’ve lost 15 pounds, give or take an ounce, since I was informed that two pieces of pie are two too many.

The upshot is that, while there’s less of me to love, my pants have a harder time hanging around.

And don’t get me started on belts, upon which I’ve had to hammer-and-nail more than a few notches to make them of use. Notches? I don’t need no more shrinking notches.

Still, weight is a different matter altogether than height. I mean, no one ever asked William Howard Taft how round someone’s belly should be — and even if it’s more legend than fact that he once got stuck in a White House tub, he did have a seven-foot-long, 41-inch-wide, one ton bathing basin built for his private use.

Before I stop shopping in the Big & Tall section, though, I decided to take matters into my own hands … and my mother’s yardstick.

It’s still in my possession and, even though it suffers from fading print and a touch of scoliosis, it was sufficient to rule on whether my new “official” height was accurate.

Pencil in hand, back against the door frame — no tippy-toes employed — I made my mark and measured.

Drum roll, please.

Aha! I knew they must have measured me incorrectly. Probably followed the slope down the back of my head.

I have NOT lost an inch and three-quarters. I have only lost an inch and a half.

When it comes to small victories, size does matter.