That house? The one with the wall of windows and the nice kitchen? That is not our house. The good news? It’s not our house because we don’t want it to be our house. The first time we saw it, it was lovely. The second time? It was pretty terrible with its dirty cracks and unfinished business. (It went from Iggy Pop to Iggy Azalea, and even I don’t know what I’m talking about!)
This house thing is really not a thing at all. Something good will happen. It nearly always does. Thus it is, and so it goes.
I finished a pair of socks.
Also, I started a new clean eating adventure yesterday. My only rules are No Bread and No Processed Foods. I’ve screwed up only once, and if you know me at all, you know that one screw-up in 36 hours is pretty much a victory.
This is my next adventure:
I started this sock on November 4, 2008 at 5:30 in the morning as I sat on the ground in the dark and waited for my polling place to open so I could vote for MY CANDIDATE OF CHOICE! (You know who I’m talking about.) Anyway, after working on it for a day or so, I shifted focus because there was cornbread (also known as My Nemesis) to be eaten.
I’ll tell you what else.
Henry loves his bunny.
We’re going to look at two more houses on Thursday night. If one of them ends up working, I’ll definitely let you know.
Welcome back to “Angela Goes On and On About Moving But Never Actually Moves!”
Do you remember two and half months ago when I started singing songs about falling in love with a house? Yep. Well, that wasn’t our house. (It was MY house, but it wasn’t my FAMILY’S house. The Downing Rule? It takes four yeses, but only one no. (Yeses doesn’t LOOK correct, but it is. I looked it up. Someone needs to endorse my fact checking skills on LinkedIn!!!))
The last time you and I hung out, I was talking about seeing three houses on Saturday. We actually ended up seeing FOUR houses, and two of them were Fast Nos. (You really do think there should be an apostrophe in that Nos, don’t you? I know!) One of the Yes houses was super nice and empty (move-in ready!), but had no privacy in the back yard. (I need privacy in my back yard, and that sounds dirty to some of you, but it’s not.)
The other Yes house? Despite the cruddy paint job and the fact that it needs a bit of work that we don’t know how to do (PROPERTY BROTHERS!), we quickly fell in love with it. And now, because I like to share everything with you, I’m going to show you WHY we fell in love with it.
This is what’s going on in the kitchen.
It needs a microwave above the stove, but we’ll cross that bridge when it’s time. (It’s time.)
Please know that although I read The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, meaning I’m WELL AWARE of what’s possible on the internet, I’m trusting that you won’t run these photos through a special real estate filter to see exactly where the house is located so you can steal it from under our noses! I TRUST YOU! Anyway, check out that back splash. (Is it weird that I wish the appliances were black? When I’m 50, I’ll consider replacing them, as I hereby proclaim 50 to be The Year of Black Appliances. (Or maybe BLUE! It WILL be 2020! We’ll probably be riding around in hovering wagons by then! Imagine the possibilities! STAINLESS STEEL!!!))
Anyway, do you see all of that natural light at the end of the photo? That natural light is a result of this.
That staircase is lovely, and is up against a wall of windows. If we move into this house, I promise to hire a choir of children who will stand on the stairs during the first snowfall to sing Silent Night in German while holding tiny (non-drip) candles.
Wait. I just found the photo of the wall of windows. This is the back of the house.
I know I don’t deserve a house that looks like this. I’m absolutely amazed that it’s sort of in our price range and that the neighbors seem like nice people and that there is a lot of diversity in the subdivision. (All of these things are more important to me than how many bathrooms are available and if the garage holds one car or two. I want the girls to grow up around good people who don’t look just like us.)
This might be our house. (It also might not be. You know I’ll keep you updated.)
I’ve been cleaning out our dining room closet because the dining room is being sold as a bedroom and no one keeps weird tablecloths and expired cleaning products in their bedroom closet. (I guess I can’t really speak for No One. All I can say is that the imaginary toddler who will be residing in our dining room (on a princess bed!) will not have tablecloths and chemicals in her closet. (I’ve named the imaginary toddler Winnie.))
Yesterday I found the Christmas cards we received in 2004. It was VERY difficult to decide which ones to recycle. In the end, I kept only the cards from friends and family members who are no longer with us, as well as a card from Stew because I have a funny feeling it may be worth a million dollars some day. We won’t sell it for a million, but it will be nice knowing that we have a Christmas card that can pay the girls’ way through college and beyond.
This is Stew. (This song could have been written about me if my life in the early 90s was slightly exaggerated and deemed worthy of a song.)
Anyway, I revisited cards from many of you, and: Merry Christmas 2004. Some of you aren’t married anymore. Some of you no longer have hair. A lot can happen in a decade. A lot can happen in a DAY!
(I also found a size 2 thong with tags still attached. It was in a ceramic box that said, “Been looking for love, and then came you.”)
I found the card I made for Jeff in August of 2002.
I quickly posted it onto Facebook, and a few people didn’t notice that it was from 2002, and I received a congratulatory e-mail, and it felt really weird, considering I had a hysterectomy six weeks ago. At the same time, I’ll never again be congratulated for growing an actual baby, so one last spin wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
The inside of our house has been painted and we have new carpeting in the basement. We’ve been filling the driveway with stuff we no longer want and we’ve watched people pull up and dig through our old stuff, sometimes filling their cars with things like tiny plastic chairs and yard polo sets. (Last night a man pulled up and took Jeff’s old home brew kit along with some unused beer bottles. Jeff talked to him about where to find supplies, and BAM! There’s a new beer brewer in town, and his name is John.) ((Have I mentioned that I haven’t had a drink since February 6th? (I probably have six lady drinks per year. Now that I’ve made the personal connection between alcohol and migraines, my red-faced days are over.)))
Anyway. I’m overwhelmed. We have so much stuff and nowhere to put it. I spend the days moving things from place to place and Sisyphus comes to mind.
I just wanted to check in. I hope your weekend is a good one.
A lot of not so much has happened since we last spoke.
A few signs went up in the front yard, and as a result we’ve now had a number of rooms painted and the carpet guys (if they ever call us back) should be here within the next few weeks. I need to thank you all for your words of encouragement and sanity last week. We are definitely moving, and we’ve expanded our search engine to include homes within our current school district as well as homes that are thirty minutes away. We’re open. The girls will thrive and I’ll continue to eat too many doughnuts regardless of where my hat is hung.
Today is the first day of summer break, and Meredith is no longer an elementary school student. She has been attending her elementary school since preschool, which means she has roamed those halls for eight years. It was weird to pick her up for the last time yesterday afternoon.
(Henry, who always has a bit of nature stuck to him) turned three yesterday. He celebrated with salmon jerky and sweet potato fries.)
I’ve been reading a book titled 10% Happier by Dan Harris. I believe it’s marketed as a self help book, but that’s not why I’m reading it. (I already consider myself to be mostly happy. Although my family would probably disagree, I don’t think the world could stand me at 10% happier.) Anyway, I’m a little less than halfway through the book, and I already want to invite Dan Harris over for burrito night. He’s cynical (I always love the cynics) and has spent the pages I’ve read so far embarking on a new age path of spirituality in an attempt to settle the never ending voice in his head. (The voice isn’t related to mental illness. It’s the voice we all have. Mine spends the entire day telling me that I look bad in my clothes or that I’m not as smart as I think I am or that I’m a crappy mom. Just now it told me that it wishes I could type faster.)
I could go on and on about how much I agree with everything I’ve read to this point (Deepak Chopra IS over the top! Eckhart Tolle IS weird!), but the thing that’s really striking me right now is how much I’m loving his discussion on Buddhism and how it’s important to not dwell on the past or suffer through weird “what ifs” about the future. Present moment. It’s all about right now. (Right now I’m drinking my second cup of coffee for the day and I look bad in my clothes. Gah!) Anyway. I love my religion, yet I also love the idea of incorporating some of the Buddhist ideas into the way I live. Less fear about what might not happen. Stop wasting time on grudges. (I’m the biggest grudge holder you barely know.) Death happens and life should be celebrated and I’m wearing Birkenstocks.
Anyway. I know. Just be aware that coping with the process of moving will be a lot easier if I allow myself to live in the moment and simply smile politely at the folks who tell me that moving sucks and that it will be the most stressful thing I’ll ever experience.
Please know that I will not be participating in a sweat lodge or dancing naked at a drum circle. (With that said, it’s going to be a hot day today and our only plan is to go out and rent a bell kit and practice pad for Meredith’s percussion band camp, so really, who knows what I’ll be up to later this afternoon? Bring on the dancing horses!)
God’s totally cool with me doing whatever it takes to feel less rattled about things that happened years ago or things that might happen tomorrow. (We’re having lunch with my nephew tomorrow. I’m not the least bit rattled.)
Oh, you guys. Have I told you lately how much I love that you tolerate me?
If someone came over to our house and forced Jeff and I to prioritize the factors that are influencing our relocation, it wouldn’t take much time to come up with a list. At the same time, I’m one of those weirdos who is constantly looking for signs. (Signs from the universe. Not traffic signs. Yesterday afternoon I accidentally ran a stop sign in a burrito parking lot and a woman who could have been 104 years old flashed her middle finger at me and I got all flustered and I almost followed her to her final destination so I could apologize for being a jerk, but I didn’t want to freak her out any more than I already had in the burrito parking lot.) If signs are falling into our laps, they can’t be ignored.
Sort of a sign: Last week was Meredith’s fifth grade recognition ceremony, and 23 of you just yawned when you read “fifth grade recognition ceremony” but I can assure you that it was NOT a yawn-inducing event. It’s a talent showcase and some of these kids can SING and some of them are fearless and I sat in that cold metal chair and thought about how we’ve known some of these kids since they were three years old and now they’re running sound equipment and playing instruments and some of them look like ADULTS, which I’m assuming can be blamed on milk hormones, but I can’t blame milk hormones for everything because at some point HUMAN hormones kick in and Ack! Meredith is starting middle school next year.
This is not going to be a post about a weepy mom (me) and how they (kids) grow up too fast. I’ve seen way too many of those posts in the past week, and I lack the energy to make it work. Yes. Meredith is not two anymore. BUT, I’m glad that she’s potty trained and that she’s a good egg and that she’s finally starting to stand up for herself a bit more. All good things. I’m in for the ride.
After the fifth grade recognition ceremony (WAKE UP OUT THERE, YOU!), Harper said the following words: “I’m sad that I won’t be at this elementary school in fifth grade.” I responded with the sort of crap that you’re supposed to say to a child who is afraid of change. “WELL, just think of the friends you’ll make at the NEW SCHOOL!” Sadly, but not so sadly, Harper is smart. She knew exactly what I was doing. She wants her own room, but she wants to stay where we are. During all of the talks about moving, Harper has always been the one to express excitement about being the new kid. This is no longer the case.
Sort of a sign: I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: You can’t swing a dead cat without thwapping a gifted kid in the head. Gifted kids are everywhere. Because I don’t like to drone on about it, I’ll just say this: 1. Both of my kids are in the gifted program at their school, and we could not be happier with the program. It’s amazing, and it continues in various forms until the kids graduate from high school. 2. I know I’m not using colons correctly in this entry. I don’t have much free time today, so I’m typing as I think and just puking it onto you without manners. (You look very pretty/handsome today.) Anyway, while researching schools in the areas where we’re thinking about relocating, none of their gifted programs have impressed us as much as the program we’re in right now.
Sort of a sign: Yesterday morning, one of the teachers at school told me that if we move, we’ll be missed. I know that’s a stock comment to say to someone who may be moving, but it was sort of a thing because I’ve never been told that I was missed or that I’ll be missed. I’m always just sort of a floater who is there or not there.
Sort of a sign: Can we talk about music for a second? Our school’s band/orchestra/choral program is a good one. A few weeks back, Meredith told me that she was asked to audition for a spot in the percussion program. In 1980, if you wanted to play the drums, you signed up for percussion. No test, no questions, you’re just in. Anyway, times have changed and yesterday we received an acceptance letter and invitation for Meredith to be part of the percussion program. Because I have always put music (and drummers) high on my list of LIKES, this was a huge thing. (We celebrated with Dairy Queen, which is never really a great choice, but it was Meredith’s choice, so there you go.)
Our realtor is coming over this weekend. I’m assuming she’s going to be bringing a Coming Soon! sign for our front yard. (So many signs!) I’m feeling so completely torn right now because we can get a lot more house for our money if we move 30 minutes west. (I’ve been consistently shocked by the size of houses we can afford out there, and the size of houses we cannot afford where we are right now.) I want our next house to be our forever house. I want to die in that house, and I want that death to occur sometime after I’m 75 years old. Honestly, Fluid Pudding is the perfect name because I’m physically unable to stand firm on anything lately. We can’t stay here because even though we’re selling this house as a three bedroom house, it’s not really a three bedroom house. (I hate that it feels slimy to call it a three bedroom house, but both realtors swear that this is what you do. I also feel weird about not disclosing the fact that the first woman who lived here either died and fell off of the roof or else she fell off of the roof and died.)
I have an hour to pack boxes before I’m volunteering at school. Someone talk some sense into me. (But please be nice because I’m also sort of oddly hormonal right now, and I don’t think anyone wants me to put on a diaper and drive across the country fueled by Funyuns and Mountain Dew Code Red just to give a mean person a piece of my soggy mind.)
I have been absolutely flooded with kindness this week. I turned 44 on Monday, and that’s weird because Jackson Pollock and Billie Holiday both died at 44. I don’t plan on dying at 44, and now that I’ve said that I really hope that I DON’T die at 44 because then everyone (and by everyone I mean you guys, because you’re my Everyone) will come back to this post and your eyes will go wide because of the creepy foreshadowing. I really need to paint more and sing more and write more and knit more. (Also, pack more and talk to carpet guys more and pull weeds more. Our “Coming Soon!” sign is coming soon!)
Because of the generosity of others, I’ll be ordering a few books (recommendations are always welcome) and spinning camel fiber and eating a few sandwiches and drinking a few coffees and blowing the foam from an icy mug of root beer. Along with a heaping amount of TLC, my family presented me with a pair of shoes that I haven’t taken off since Monday. They are the sized up twins to my very first pair of Birkenstocks—purchased in 1993 when I was working in a hospital as an intensive care unit secretary and a bagger of the dead. I ruined that first pair after leaving them in a hot car during the summer of 1999, and I still haven’t forgiven myself. (In my world, when you pay more than $50 for a pair of shoes, you TAKE CARE OF THOSE SHOES. Actually, in my world, you take care of all of your things. Because: Personification is one of my endearing glitches.) Anyway, I love these shoes, and I love that the pedicure I treated myself to before my surgery matches them perfectly, and I would post a photo, but I’m not a foot person, and the last thing we need here is a bunch of new people saying foot-related things that make us all cringe.
Recovery Update For Those Who Want One: I removed my surgical tape and two of the four incision sites aren’t pretty. Also, I have an infection that requires antibiotics and that sucks because I’m not good at antibiotics. What does all of this mean? I’m not exactly sure, but I do know that I require lots of naps with sporadic Orange Berry Antioxidant juices from Jamba Juice.
I’m reading The Middlesteins and liking it. I don’t mind the Oprah Chai, but I wish it wasn’t called Oprah Chai. My family has chosen incentive spirometry over electronic devices.
1. I was asked to pee into a hat and was told to not empty the hat. I filled the hat in the middle of the night, so I called my nurse in.
Me: My pee hat is full.
Nurse: Okay. I’ll empty it.
Less than an hour later, I walked into the bathroom and found that my pee hat was still full. I dumped out the hat and put it on the floor because I was TIRED of dealing with a hat full of pee! I then used the toilet and NOT the hat and INDEPENDENCE! When I told the nurse that I dumped the hat out, she seemed a little angry. (I’m still feeling slightly guilty about the whole pee hat thing. It occurred to me afterwards that pee in a hospital is like a diamond in a jewelry store. Things like clarity and color need to be documented so the pee’s worth can be estimated.) So much talk about pee. Let’s move on to blood.
2. I woke up and blood was soaking through my dressings and through my gown. I called the nurse in, and she asked if I wanted to change my gown. I told her that I did, but that changing the dressings seemed more important, because they looked a lot worse than the gown. She then taught me how to change my own dressings, and I felt like we were at a slumber party doing each other’s hair, except I was dealing with tape and gauze and nobody walked away with a sloppy braid. The next morning when the surgeon visited, he asked, “Why is there gauze on the incision sites?” He didn’t seem happy, so I said, “I might have done that.” He said, “I asked your nurse to remove the dressings.” That’s when I may have said something like, “My bad.” (I typically don’t talk like that. Morphine.)
3. I woke up and heard my kids talking about dinner and I remember feeling stressed out that they would want me to prepare something for them, because there I was in a hospital bed zonked out on morphine and anesthesia and my only supplies were saltines and an emesis basin.
4. I sent Jeff to the store to buy an enema. I don’t need an enema, but it’s sitting right here by me as I type this message to you. Like a tiki idol.
I’m still hazy, which I hear is the anesthesia wearing off. Apparently, it can take WEEKS, which is why I’m taking milk thistle pills and drinking detox tea. (I hate the fog.) Also, I’m just painy enough to require Percocet again, and that bums me out because Percocet makes me fall asleep at weird times. Other than that? All is well. (Except for a touchy subject that involves kids and texting and I would really like your opinion regarding what sort of texting parameters you would place on an 11-year-old girl. I have an 11-year-old girl. She’s a gem. However, we need to set up some rules.)
The UPS man just delivered a box from Zappos. It’s addressed to Jeff, so I can’t open it. (It’s against the law to tamper with someone else’s mail. I once found out that one of my bosses in Nashville had thrown away some of my mail. When I jokingly reminded him (electronically) that what he did was a crime that is punishable by incarceration, he responded to my e-mail with a simple question: ARE YOU THREATENING ME? (I did not respond. He has since passed on.))
It looks like my surgeon implanted a chicken foot into one of my incisions. I would try to remove it, but it might be his surgical signature, and you should never scratch “Monet” from a wall of water lilies.
(Edited to add: And you should never credit Van Gogh for water lily walls. Thanks to Blackbird for the gentle correction.)
I wanted to check in and let you know that the surgery went well. The endometriosis was cleared, and all of the parts that were supposed to be removed were indeed removed. (Removed, indeed!)
Although it has been over 48 hours since I woke up and received a dose of morphine, my vision hasn’t yet cleared and I’m still sort of engaging in nervous jabber. I repeat myself and I repeat myself. (And I repeat myself.)
Anyway. Did someone just ask for photos?
This is me in the pre-op room. I took the photo as a lab tech was performing a pregnancy test. (Not on herself. She was CLEARLY pregnant.) My test was negative, so they quickly put me to sleep and rolled me away!
This is me several hours later after my family had gone home. Please know that Meredith’s DARE graduation is coming up at the end of the month, and here I am completely doped on narcotics. In my defense, I WAS in a hospital bed and NOT trying to drive a car. (Take note that I scored a backstage bracelet to the Drug Allergy show!)
Suddenly, it was really late at night and that’s a great time to take a solo trip to the restroom and then pull up Instagram and some saltines to celebrate my independence. (Bonus Fact: Those are the first socks I ever made. I knew I wanted to take handknit socks, so I wore the ones that were okay to get goopy. Because who knows what might happen?!)
At something like 3:00 in the morning, I woke up and started thinking about how much I love the photos that Stieglitz took of Georgia O’Keeffe’s hands. (If you click on that link, the photo that appears is the photo I took in when I had Georgia O’Keeffe’s hands tattooed onto my ankle when I was 22.) Anyway. 3:00 in the morning. Georgia O’Keeffe. Morphine in my IV and me with an iPhone.
And then the morning came, and it was time for me to call the food service department and order breakfast.
Food Lady: Food services, how may I help you?
Me: I’m in room 2316 and I would like to order breakfast.
Food Lady: What can I bring you this morning?
Me (realizing that I should have chosen food before making this call): Hamburgered eggs?!
Food Lady: I’m sorry?
Me: No! That’s weird. I saw hard-boiled eggs and scrambled eggs and I read it as Hamburgered Eggs.
Food Lady: Would you like eggs this morning?
Me: Ugh. No. Wheat toast.
Three hours later, Jeff picked me up, took me to Starbucks, and drove me home.
And because last night was a rough one, I decided to spend the day with zero pain medication. (I hate the haze. I struggle to make sense when I’m completely straight. I don’t need medication to make me more aware of my tendency to drone wackiness.)
And now I’m sitting in the rocking chair and staring at my old bug mobile and hoping that I heal just as quickly as everyone else is hoping.
Thanks for checking in on me. I’ll be back when I can.
I’ve spent the better part of this week (also the worse part of this week) tying up loose ends before I take the next 14 days to discover what life is like without most of my girl parts. (Side note: I accidentally typed “my girl party” and that struck me as very funny, mainly because I didn’t sleep very well last night.)
Anyway, this morning I delivered some papers to school and then I returned every single library book that will be due in the next two weeks (and that equals ALL OF THEM) and then I decided to treat myself to a soy caramel latte which is my second favorite drink at Starbucks (I didn’t feel that I deserved my first favorite drink.) before heading over to the license bureau to renew my driver’s license. The Starbucks lot was completely full, so I did the thing where I park in the bank parking lot next door and walk over. (I still wear a Fitbit, but I definitely do NOT want to talk about it.)
Not only was the Starbucks LOT completely full, but the Starbucks STORE (store? location? box?) was completely full. I ended up in line behind a woman who was typing an e-mail on her iPad AND talking on her phone (with one of those no-hands doohickies) all at the same time (while standing up!). There were eight people in line ahead of us, and six of them were doing something or other with a screen. (One was doing something with a baby. One was wearing a yoga costume.) When the woman behind the cash register was ready for iPad/Phone lady to order, this is what happened.
Cash Register Lady: I can take who’s next.
iPad/Phone Lady: Blah, blah, blah, showings at noon and two.
Cash Register Lady: Next in line please!
iPad/Phone Lady: I don’t even want to talk about that. We’ll discuss that on Tuesday.
Cash Register Lady: Next!
I decided to walk around the iPad/Phone Lady to order my drink, because sometimes my actions speak louder than my words. Then this is what happened.
iPad/Phone Lady: Wait. I’m next!
(I stepped back.)
Cash Register Lady: What can I get for you today?
iPad/Phone Lady: Hold on just a second.
She then dismissed the person on the telephone, closed down her iPad, and stared at the menu for 73 minutes before ordering her beverage. (73 minutes was probably more like 7.3 seconds, but by this point I WAS COMPLETELY DONE WITH HER SHENANIGANS.) ((Her drink was VERY specialized, so deep down I knew that she was completely prepared to order (two AND A HALF Splendas?! do you have any idea that I’m stink-eyeing you in my head right now?) and was just wasting those 7.3 seconds to get back at me for taking one step forward and two steps back.))
Her name was Andrea. She had a lot of cat hair on her pants. (So do I.) Judging by her conversation and her e-mail (that I read over her shoulder because I didn’t have much else going on), she has a very busy day ahead of her. And I found myself thinking things like, “Why in the hell can’t people just drop their screens for ten minutes so that the line can keep moving?” And then I remembered that I’m parked in the bank parking lot, so who am I to try to push my rules on other people? I have no business to handle at the bank! I grabbed my drink, scored about 200 steps on the walk back to my car, and headed toward the license place.
I know it’s a thing to complain about the license office because most license offices provide a lot of things about which to complain. When I entered the building, the skies opened up and I was able to go right up to the “put your forehead against the paper” machine for my vision test. Suddenly, it was time to take my photo and I’m not sure why I had forgotten that part, but I had, so I started stressing out about the amount of lip gloss that had transferred from my face to my soy caramel latte cup but I didn’t want to take the time to actually find the lip gloss, so I sat down and waited for the flash as instructed, and here is the photo that I’ll be walking around with until 2020.
I’ve seen worse, although I have no idea why the lack of lip gloss caused my right eye to nearly fall out of my skull. (Also, I’m not really sure there’s a bear seal on a Missouri license, but in my mind, there’s a bear seal on a Missouri license.) ((Also, that high school weight thing? If people try to find me based on the weight listed on my driver’s license, I will stay hidden forever.))
Finally, I’ve considered live-blogging my surgery next week, but I think we all have more important things to do than tune in for:
11:30 First incision made. Things are about to get spooky all up in my organs.
12:45 This is not my house.
15:27 I have now told the nurse that I’m a vegetarian 492 times. I have also told her to not bring me a turkey sandwich no matter how much I beg for it. I’m like a gremlin, but nothing like a gremlin.
I once found myself at the student health services building while attending the University of Missouri. I don’t remember why I was there and I don’t remember why they would have measured me, but I DO remember that I rang in at 5’7″. I remember feeling very proud about my height, because I had recently read an article (probably in Sassy magazine) that said something like “The minimum height for a model is 5’7″.” Don’t get me wrong. I never thought that I was fit to be a model. BUT, I liked thinking that if the world turned upside down and “socially awkward pear-shaped girls who stare at the floor and fall down a lot” became The Thing, my height would work in my favor.
This Proves How Strange I Am: After measuring in at 5’7″, if anyone ever asked my height (at doctor’s offices or pizza joints or on the streets, et cetera), I would answer with 5’6″. It felt like I was bragging if I admitted to being the minimum height for a model. “I liked The Communards before they were popular. I just forfeited a piano scholarship because 7:40 is entirely too early for me to drag myself to a composition class. I’m the minimum height for modeling.”
Last week I had to have a bunch of pre-op blood drawn. Before they stuck me, they measured me.
Nurse: 5 feet, 5 1/4 inches.
Me: No. 5 feet, 6 inches. (But really 5 feet, 7 inches. Because I’m the minimum height for modeling.)
Nurse: No, it’s 5 feet, 5 1/4 inches.
Me: Write down what you want, but I won’t accept that as truth.
The normal size of a uterus is said to be 8cm x 6cm x 4cm. This means I’m going to be even shorter next week.
At this rate, I’ll probably be 4 feet tall in about 3 years. And that’s why I need to start wearing heels. And that’s why I just added these shoes to my list of wishes.
Supposedly, Michael J. Fox is 5’5″.
Supposedly, Shakira is 4’11″.
Everything is going to be alright.
EDITED TO ADD: Except everything is NOT going to be alright. Because I cannot figure out how to get my single quotation marks to go proper for measurement purposes. And this will keep me awake tonight.