It is no revelation to many of you that I have a little… ummm…. problem. With my height. I’m sure all of this will be quite redundant for you. So, if you’ve known me since I was a little shit dropping my pencil in Mrs. Shambley’s class, seductively enticing you to look up my dress when I bent over to pick it up, and then telling on you, you can just go ahead and click out of this and read something else. Yeah, buddy. I’m callin’ you out. I know you’re here. You love me. Don’t lie.
Right. Anyway. It seems I have quite a few new minions all up in my shit lately, so I figured I’d revisit this little issue of mine.
To be specific, I am 4 feet 6 inches tall. Stop laughing. STOP IT. I’m not a midget, a dwarf, a pygmy, a smurf, a troll, or anything else you must be thinking. Perhaps a touch of hobbit blood? I always liked Rosie Cotton. Sam’s girl. Dancing. But, certainly not. I’m kind of like a normal person, only kind of, but miniature. Except my brain. Which is probably bigger than yours. And you can’t have it. So go away.
My younger sister is taller than me. By an inch. So is my mother. By an inch. Do you know what that means? It means I’m a runt. That’s what that means. But it’s cool. I’m over it.
Depending on the brand, my shoe size is between 2 and 4. At normal stores, I have to buy kids shoes. There is only one store that I know of that makes heels for women like me. Cinderella of Boston. If you have freakishly small feet, I highly recommend them. They rock.
I’ve had the smallest clothes in the laundry for 5 or 6 years already. When the kids do the laundry, they like tossing my shirts back and forth and making jokes about doll clothes. The refuse to touch my panties. I don’t make them. But I should. That would be funny.
I can shop in the little girls department for some things, but shirts are tricky. They don’t make little girls size clothes cut for size 32C boobs. 32C. Do you know how fucking impossible it is to find bras? Don’t ask. Nightmare.
From a very young age, I discovered that there are people in this world who have no qualms about commenting on a complete stranger’s height. Kids are great. I love it when they ask me questions. They’re so honest. So far, my favorite question of all time is, “Are you a lady or a girl?” COOLEST. QUESTION. EVER.
About a year ago, I was in the grocery store. An older man, easily in his 70s, stopped in his tracks. Turned and looked at me. Stared for a few seconds. I smiled politely, nervously, slightly. And he said, “I hope you don’t mind if I say something, and I don’t mean to be rude, but you are a beautiful woman. There aren’t many women like you, you know. You’re such a treasure.” Swear to god. A treasure? I didn’t think anyone used that word anymore if Dungeons and Dragons wasn’t involved. I vacillated between being complimented beyond belief and wondering if he had a midget fetish. I didn’t ask.
When we are shopping, I frequently hand the boys the car keys and follow them around the store begging for shit and acting like their bratty little sister. So much fun.
I’ve gotten in trouble for climbing the shelves in Wal-Mart to reach the top. As an adult.
I have no doubt I could get away with beating the fuck outta my kids and claiming self defense. They know this. They don’t fuck with me.
It is frequently assumed that I am my husband’s daughter or sister when we’re in public. He usually doesn’t correct them, and then plants a gigantic incestuous kiss right on my mouth. Sick mother fucker.
There is at least 1 ride at Universal Studios that I can’t ride. Andrew was very happy about that since he was too scared to ride it. I think he actually bent his knees a little bit so he could be too short, too. That was 5 years ago. He was already taller than me 5 years ago.
I have never owned a pair of jeans that didn’t have to be cut and hemmed. Until this past year. Old Navy came out with their skinny jeans. Size 2. NO HEMMING. I was blown away. I actually stood in the mirror and admired my feet for several minutes. It was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen.
I can stretch out and fall asleep in coach.
I can barely reach the bottom shelf in the kitchen cabinets.
I have fallen inside a washing machine head first.
I got a stool for a wedding gift. I still have it.
I can almost lay flat in the bathtub without bending my knees. Almost.
A boy actually told me in the 3rd grade that he couldn’t be my boyfriend because I looked like a baby. Fuck you.
And to all of you ass lickin mother fuckers who kept trying to set me up with the shortest guys in school, I’d just like to extend a big fat FUCK YOU. Sorry short guys, but that shit’s a no-go for me. I’m sure someone would have a field day psychoanalyzing my insatiable hunger for the tallest, broadest, most neanderthal guy in the room, but tis true. I have a tall boy fetish. Always have.