My Old Age Has Taken A Mighty Downward Spiral Today
So, I’ve been riding pretty high about the fact I don’t feel old. Sure, I’m starting to show signs of wear and tear, but overall, I feel pretty good. Until today when it all came crashing down.
I’ve never totally loved being tall. I was called Jolly Green Giant as a kid, asked how the weather was up there, and other various tall girl jokes. All it did was make me lean into the curve. I wore high heels and wore my hair bigger so I couldn’t hear their insults. Sorry, can’t hear you over all the noise down there, ya jerks.
Forced into basketball in eighth grade, I was officially measured at 5’11.” Yep. It’s out there. My freshman year, the coach begged me to allow him to write 6′ on the player roster, but I refused him. The girls already called me mean names, I didn’t have to be the tallest girl on the team too.
Taller than everyone my age, my brothers, and the entire world it often felt, I continued to work hard to ignore the haters. Five-eleven and f*ck ’em.
Then today, I had to go to the orthopedic doctor for my bum knee and recurring patellofemoral pain and the med tech clocked me at 5′ 9-1/2″.
I giggled awkwardly barefoot on the scale/measuring contraption. “No, that can’t be right. I’m 5’11”.”
She smiles, “Yeah, it’s 5’9-1/2.”
Me, now urgently speaking, “No, seriously. I’ve been 5’11” since I was 13 years old. I think I need to be re-measured.”
She just smiles and shakes her head and waves me to follow her. “It happens!” She says light-heartedly.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
I’m SHRINKING!? Talk about a downward spiral.
As of this post, I’m not even 41 years old yet. I’m 40! And evidently losing square footage. You can’t teach height. And you definitely aren’t going to be gaining any ground in that area.
Seriously, that’s an inch-and-a-half difference. That’s significant!
I mean, I demanded to be re-measured. Those cries were not met. Maybe she thought I was joking. Who knows. All I know is, the next time I go to the doctor, I’m bringing my own certified measuring device and a witness.
(So, my web designer says I needed to include a bio, though I find this task silly because, if you’re here, you know me.)
I’m a writer. It’s what I do. It’s a cathartic mechanism when I need release from my anxiety. I’ve had blogs in the past; I’ve taken them down, but I never stopped writing. I simply can’t. My notes app is forever long as it’s filled with pages and pages of different topics. Sometimes I just write a few sentences. Sometimes I write paragraphs.
Recently, I've been writing long essays. My friends and others I hold dear have coaxed me into sharing my work again.
So that's what I'm doing, you wicked, pushy people. LOL
I have no desire to see my writing be anything more than an opportunity to share what I love doing most. I have no interest in this blog reaching the masses.
I thought it would be fun to call it My Spicy Disaster because that's often how I feel. A complete mess of epic proportion. So join me, if you'd like, and let's pretend we're not sitting amongst the chaos crying, but laughing instead.
Or maybe we do cry sometimes, but then wipe our tears and remember one person’s disaster is another person’s … well, who the hell knows …
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