Recently it came to my attention that I’m not a giant. I know, this should’ve come to me when I was in 5th grade and reached my full adult height. Or maybe when I couldn’t reach the second shelf in my kitchen without a step ladder. Or how I sometimes shop in the children’s department because it’s the same clothes for cheaper. I should have clued in when I turned 18 and my boyfriend still called me “fun sized.” I hear that 5 feet 2 inches is “short”, though I disagree.
What triggered the realization that I’m not a giant was the arrival of my new breakfast room table. It seats six to eight people and is bar height. You can’t see this, but the table ends about 4 inches under my chin. So I have to climb up into the chairs like my hypothetical kids do. I didn’t realize this, of course, because I have to climb into everything. Even when I sit on the toilet, my feet touch the floor only on my tip toes. A friend noticed when I stood up, and started to laugh.
So then I started looking around my house. I have a king sized bed though my husband is average height. My living room furniture has two overstuffed chairs that could seat two people at a time. I drive a minivan for leg room, which is sad because I have to pull the seat all the way forward to reach the pedals… though my boobs almost hit the wheel.
So there you have it folks… apparently my height doesn’t live up to my personality. But I don’t care, because I’m 6 feet 5 inches in my mind.
Lady or Not… Here I Come
P.S. Candy Crunch Level 253