- I'm very tall. Like, 5'10". I know that's not record-breaking or anything, but I'm well above the 95th percentile (I checked. By the way, do you realize that we're already shrinking, ladies? At least, I am. According to that chart, I peaked in my early 20s. Life is cruel.). I'd probably be taller if it wasn't for that dang kyphosis. Extreme height (I'm assuming this works both ways) has a greater effect on one's life than ye average-heighted sistahs may imagine (some Olde English Gangsta for you there). Firstly, NO CLOTHES FIT ME. Ever. Until now. Because now, Banana Republic (yeah, right, like I shop there anymore. Sometimes I miss having a paying job.), Gap, and, most recently, Old Navy all carry tall sizes. In tops, too. This is really the key because, although hard to find, pants with a longer inseam have, truthfully, been around for some time. But to not have my belly hanging out of my shirts, especially now (ugh!)...it's a reality dreamt of since I was a wee 5'8" freshman in high school. I remember being in college and being asked why I was wearing a shirt that was too small for me (I'm looking at you, Wonderland!!). As I looked down at shirt sleeves that had shrunk up to the midpoint of my forearms, I didn't really have an answer. This is the same Wonderland who also laughed and pointed at how skinny my calves are on our way home from crew practice one day. I'm a freak, Wonderland! That's why! On the other hand, if I had a nickel for every woman who has told me how they envy my height and that I should be a model (Note to all those women: get thee to the season premiere of ANTM Cycle Gagillion. Because, in case you haven't noticed, you need a lot more than height to be a model. Like, you have to weigh approximately 4 lbs. And have cheekbones that could slice bread. Which I don't.), I'd be...well, let's just say I could afford to have a personal chef and trainer to get me to a weight of 4. Or at least 140. Another advantage is athletic prowess. Or at least the potential for athletic prowess, however unrealized it may be (ahem). I blame inconsistent coaching in high school as the only reason I didn't completely kick-ass during my volleyball years. Wasted talent. That, and the fact that I'm about as coordinated as my nine-month-old daughter. She's probably peaking even as I wr-...wait, nope, she peaked, that was it. Finally, I can reach stuff no one else can and am often the first to spot Mr. Ouiser in a crowd.
- I used to be a rower (see Athletic Prowess, above). I entered college looking for the most difficult, most punishing, most thankless sport there is, found it, and shouted, "Sign me up!" I met some of the best people I've ever met in my life through crew, including the Husband and a good chunk of my current best friends (um, maybe 99% of them?). I also suffered palms full of open and bleeding blisters, shoulder injuries, back injuries, calve scars, knee damage, sleep deprivation, vomiting, frostnip, windburn, lactic acid overload, and a failed career in mathematics (you can't pass a 200-level calculus class as a freshman if you sleep through every single class. Apparently, you not only have to be there, you have to actually maintain consciousness. Who knew?). For those of you not familiar, collegiate rowing involves getting up at 2:00 am for practice, running 73 miles uphill both ways in the snow just to get to the boathouse, getting into a long, skinny boat with seven other rowers and a pipsqueak with a Napolean complex and a microphone (read: coxswain; I kid, die Frau, I kid!), who orders you around a lake that is half a degree away from freezing, while blisters form, burst, and bleed all over your oar as you're supposed to be coordinating your strokes with the other rowers for fear of catching a crab (crew-speak for putting your oar in the water a fraction too late, too early, too angled, not angled enough, etc.; aka "Uh-oh.") and getting thrown from the boat as the handle comes back to punch you in the stomach and lift you in the air, or possibly just losing some teeth if you're lucky enough to catch it in the face. And, if the hungover rower behind you is really considerate, she'll puke over the side of the boat rather than on your back. It was so much fun. And I never want to do it again.
In the meantime, as per the rules, I need to tag seven more people, so I'll start with my favorite pipsqueak, die Frau; and my favorite so-should-have-been-coxswains, Ouiser and Scarlet Lily; and my girl, Yum, who is expert in the ups and downs of living with rowers (who generate so much body heat that they like to keep the temp at a balmy 58 degrees), and THAT SYRACUSE PRACTICE! (Ask her, I'm sure she'd love to explain.)
You're it! Make sure you each tag seven more. And keep it real, yo.
*August, 18: Note that the author holds no ill will, grudges, or pouty faces toward Wonderland and her comments of ten years ago. My attempts at humor and self-deprecation were in no way meant to out her as an evil, acid-tongued mud-slinger. I was not calling her out so much as gently ribbing. However, Wonderland, if you ever tease me for not ironing my pants, all bets are off and the friendship is over. You're on notice.