Okay people, I have something HUGE to share with you.
It goes like this.
No, that’s not the revelation. That’s the background. Stay with me, friends.
I’m really short.
Short enough that when I was little (okay, when I was younger), my dad would tell me that I was just fine because my feet touched the ground — when I was standing up.
Short enough that my mom told me not to worry because I was perfectly in proportion — to myself.
Short enough that in our wedding vows, Luau promised to “be there for me to reach for the things on the high shelves” and his mother, who is just a shade taller than I am, cried.
Short enough that if you need to trim your nose hairs, I will know.
And short enough that when I went to a new doctor many (many) moons ago and he hurriedly measured me and jotted 5’0″ on my chart, (a number I’d assumed that, while I had long been rounding to, I’d not actually reached) I never, ever let another doctor measure me again. And I may or may not have gone directly to the DMV to change the height on my license, because, well, it was now official. The doctor said so. And doctors know everything. Shuddup.
Last year, I had a comprehensive physical through work. They insisted on doing everything from scratch, including the basics, like height and weight. I didn’t look, deeming willful ignorance a perfectly acceptable strategy for keeping my license as is.
Yesterday, I went back for my annual physical. The medical assistant took out my chart and read it aloud.
“We have you at sixty and a half inches,” she said. “Is that correct?”
I laughed, making her mildly uncomfortable because, well, what’s funny about that? And then I said, “That must be a mistake. I’ve always fudged just to say I was five feet.”
She asked if I’d like her to check it. I balked for a moment, not wanting to burst my happy delusion bubble, but the curiosity was more than I could bear.
I stepped on the scale and she put the measuring doohickey on my head and reported what she saw. “Sixty and a half inches,” she said.
I may or may not have squealed. Just a little.
“Wait!” I said, far too loudly. “Don’t reset it! I need a picture of this.”
By now she was openly laughing
with at me.
I snapped the photo and sent it immediately (yes, as in standing there in scrubs and asking her to hold on please before drawing my blood kind of immediately) to Luau.
And this is what happened.
I know what you’re thinking.
Oh no he di-in’t!
Well, yes, yes he did.
Trust is the bedrock of a marriage, babe; without it, what do we have?
Clearly, I needed to recruit outside help. Thankfully, I’m not above making an ass of myself, so that wasn’t a problem.
And that is how this happened.
You hear that, world? I am 60 feet tall. That lady said so. Okay, that part might have been a bit exaggerated, but OH MY GOD I am not just five feet but five feet with a cushion!
On my chart it is written, so shall it be known.
I might have to change my license again.
Oh, and Luau? Don’t doubt your wife, tough guy. Turns out she’s tall enough to kick your ass.