Hi Darling Ones,
Even though I haven’t even started reading the John Cougar Mellencamp biography my brain is chock full of JCM song title puns. I will not apologize for this. If you don’t like it, you know where the door is.
So, I fell last week. In my living room. I didn’t fall so much as I tripped. I’m not entirely sure what the difference is. I tripped because I was wearing much too big for me pants. Theses pants hang off my hips and the crotch lands between my knees and my actual crotch, making them much too long so the cuffs drag on the floor. They’re nightmare pants and I’ve nearly tripped while wearing them before. What happens is I step on one of the cuffs without noticing and then I go to move the foot with the stepped on cuff and usually I get a little wobbly. Usually some windmill arms and dramatic “woah, woah, woahs” do the trick.
On Wednesday that did not happen. Instead my right foot folded in some kind of way and I ended up landing hard on my right knee. The adage about how the bigger they are the harder they fall is no joke. I fell hard and I have the purple toes and yellow shin/knee to show it. It’s gross and painful.
If I were the kind of person who took gross pictures of bruised, swollen feet I’d show you. I’m not. Also there’s a Canadian dude who likes to email every once in awhile who asks me a million questions about my feet and then ends the email begging for pictures of them. This is grosser than my foot looks right now.
I’m sensitive when it comes to my feet. I’ve been told my entire life that I have giant monster feet. My family used to call my shoes “ski boats.” At any gathering where I had to leave my shoes at the door, without fail some friend/cousin/random girl would start clomping around in my shoes and exclaim about how petite her own feet are. Same can be said about any jacket/sweater/hoodie I remove. Women love to wear my giant ass clothes to make themselves feel smaller and more womanly. This was a favorite bit of Sister #3’s when she was a teenager.
It wasn’t until I was in my mid-to-late thirties when I was dating a 6’2″ guy with size fourteen feet that I realized my feet are kinda small for my height. I wear a size 12 men’s shoe (a woman’s 14, I think, but I probably haven’t worn women’s shoes since I was ten) and I’m 6’5″.
Petiteness = femininity is the bane of my existence. I’m glad the youths are fucking with gender norms and that feminist thinking is all “take up space!” and “don’t shrink yourself!” Because being a 6’5″ woman and trying to adhere to strict gender roles was hard, and I was never confident enough or sure of myself enough to be unapologetically my size. Mostly I spent forty-plus years apologizing for my existence and hoping to be ignored.
Hurting myself sure brought up some feelings. I planned on making jokes about little piggies and delicious little smokies. I was gonna talk about sleeping twelve hours the other night and trying to keep the pain at bay. Instead, I’m all fuck you I’m a woman no matter my size and I will shove my giant monster foot up your ass if you try to make me feel bad about it.
Painfully, clumsily yours,