one of the things i hate about being freakishly tall is the rude, unabashed staring by those not as gifted as i (for those who are new, i’m 6’5″ and a woman). of course, i talk that talk, but i don’t come even close to walking that walk. whenever i see someone who is a few inches taller than i am, i turn into the same sort of slack-jawed yokel who stares at me.
this happened most recently while sister #4 and i ate dinner at the Great Mandarin in the EP mall. at least we were behind glass, when the giant of a man walked by.
“holy shit he’s tall,” i said, interrupting her heart-wrenching monolgoue about the Great Dumping of 2005 (this is what the called-off wedding will be known as henceforth).
“he’s not that tall,” she said.
“he’s at least 6-foot 10,” i said.
“how do you know?” she said.
“trust me, i can tell these things,” i said.
“too bad he’s with that woman,” she said. “and not better looking.”
“see?” i shouted. “this is why it sucks to be me. the tall ones are taken, ugly, or well, they don’t like me at all.”
“uh,” she said. “remember how my fiance just dumped me?”
“oh yeah, i forgot. no sympathy for me.”