Did you know that I am tall? Indeed I am. I’m 6′ 1″ if I’m an inch.
It was a freak accident, if you ask me. My mother is 5′ 8″, and my dad is 6′ 0″, but my older sister didn’t come out as tall as me–she’s only 5′ 8″. And sure, there are tall cousins on both sides–two boys are well over six feet–but their parents are also all over six feet.
I don’t know how or why, but they’re my genes so I have learned to love them.
It hasn’t always been this way, though. I used to wail and wallow in despair about how tall I was–no boys would ever like me, I was sure. I was as tall as an amazon, and as graceful as a duck. And I could never find pants long enough to fit my octopus legs. In my teenage head, I was doomed for a life of misery.
Eventually I learned that it didn’t matter if boys never liked me–they were all jerks anyway. I came to embrace my duckish-demeanor, and try to laugh it off. But finding pants long enough has still been the curse of my existence.
It is a marvel to me that some people in the world can actually walk into Target™ and buy a pair of jeans off the rack for well under $50.00. The only place I have bought a pair of jeans since I was 16 has been the Buckle. Usually they range between $70.00 and $100.00 each [which, I know is a pittance compared to what some people spend on Sevens of the World or whatever those movie-star jeans are called. But alas. I am no movie star. And spending $50.00 a leg just to be decent in public is a lot of money for me].
So you can imagine how I feel when this sort of thing happens to me:
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