That shade of Humiliation looks great on you.

Halloween found me wearing 5-inch platform shoes, a long blonde wig, and an Alice in Wonderland dress. It also found me at a party where at least 3 men were dressed as women.

I had been talking to a boy for 5 minutes when he suddenly poked my chest (which was at his eye-level) and asked, "What are your boobs made out of?"

I thought it was unusual that a complete stranger had just felt me up, and I looked at him, confused. "They're just...my boobs," I said, not understanding.

It took a moment to sink in.

I took off my wig and vowed not to wear the platform shoes for another 365 days.






(Also pictured: Penelope, who dances like this in front of complete strangers.)

People are weird around me.

Chapter One: My new doctor.

Today, I saw an odd little doctor about a foot injury. I was going to ignore the foot problem, but made the mistake of mentioning it to my mother. She became convinced...convinced...that my foot was broken, that it had been broken for months, that I probably had a blood clot, that any sudden movement would knock loose the blood clot, that the newly-freed clot would swiftly travel to my heart, and that I would die. Instantly. Her panic turned to my panic. Enter Doctor Peculiar.

Doctor: What's going on here?

Me: Well, I hurt my foot. I don't know what's wrong with it. But it hurts right...here.

Doctor: Ooookay. Well. You have rather large feet.

Me: Yes.

Doctor: They are very long.

Me: Yep. Do you think that has something to do with my injury?

Doctor: No.

Me: Okay.

Doctor: Looking at your x-ray, there are no bones that are obviously broken.

Me: Well, that's good.

Doctor: I'd certainly say so, yes. Very good.


Doctor Peculiar then honed in on my foot, staring. With very little precision and even less indication of experience with this sort of thing, he curled his fingers into a fist, lest the index finger. In this pre-formed "pointing" position, his hand closed in on my foot.

Poke.

"Does it hurt there?"

"No."


Rather than simply retracting his hand, Doctor Peculiar's entire body rocked backwards after this first point of contact, as if he was frozen in his Pointing Position. I stared, fascinated, as he appeared to be coming in for another one.

Poke.

He did this with exactly the same level of bewitched curiosity as a cat nudging a square of Jell-O with its paw.

"Does it hurt there?"

"A little."

"Okay then."


He referred me to a podiatrist and prescribed me something called Daypro, which I suspect will be laced with a small amount of Rohypnol to render me unconscious for just long enough for him to sneak into my house, snap some photos of my "long" feet and post them on a website which will almost certainly have the word 'amazon' or 'giantess' somewhere in the web address.

Oh, I'm onto you, Doctor. I'm onto you.

You're really tall. Do you think there's a retirement villa large enough to accommodate you?

I used to get, "Hey. You're really tall. Do you play basketball?"

I remember the day it switched to, "Hey. You're really tall. Did you play basketball?" I felt old. Really old. Looking back, I suppose the alternate language could have been due to (1) looking too old to play basketball; or (2) looking too out-of-shape to play basketball. Both would have been fair assumptions.

Today, I got, "Hey. You're really tall. Do you have kids?"

"....."

It's happened. I understand that I'm old enough to have kids. That's fine. But now, I apparently look like a MOM. I'm on my way right now to buy MOM jeans and a sweatshirt with some embroidery on it.

Aside from apparently looking like Mrs. Unfortunate Lawyer, Mother of Four, I now also have to suspect that my gas station attendant (who asked me this question) wants to breed with me. He's short; I'm tall. Short + Tall = Normal Kids.

Thanks, but no thanks.

As a side note, I'm heading to California today to visit Sister. My parents are flying out there, too. It's a family trip. This means that you can expect my next post to be titled: Ways My Mom Made Me Cry This Weekend. Stay tuned.