You know how old I am now? Yes, I know over there it says I’m 32 but if you’ll recall there used to be a lot of dudes who commented on this site and a lot of them were the “aahhh I’m just giving you a hard time!” type, you know the ones? Of course you do. And they used to start commenting the SECOND that section of the site got out of date. “Um, aren’t you 30 now? Shouldn’t that say you live with your husband, not your boyfriend? Don’t you have a baby now?” Anyway, I’m sure you understand why I take great glee in just never updating that section of my site, ever. Actually, I intend to update it with my exact age and location in my house and what I’m wearing at 11:59pm on the night before my birthday, just because that’s who I am as a person and when you get to be my age (I am now an age where I think I can say “when you get to be my age,” partially because I spend a large part of every day interacting with young people who imagine my age not so much as a set point they themselves will eventually reach, but more of an abstract concept sort of phenomenon that happens to other people), you probably take great delight in making statements you can end with “because that’s who I am as a person” and being totally okay with that being who you are as a person.
You know how old I am now? I am “the last time I went to the doctor, I had shrunk” years old.
Why am I still getting measured at the doctor? Isn’t this something I can self report at this point in my life? Yes, I know, people shrink a bit, okay. But surely I have reached an age where “roughly this many” is good enough? Why do you even need to know? Yeah. Yeah, I know. You need my height because you need to put that plus my weight in your special formula to get my BMI which. Come on. You don’t need any of that. Why do you need my BMI? You don’t, you just really don’t. I get that there are situations in which weight needs to be monitored, like sudden loss or gain, or some kind of goal has been set, or… whatever, it’s between a doctor and whoever. But again, can I not just self-report? I’m this many tall and I weigh about this many.
If you need to prescribe something, you can say “Hey, hop on the ol scale there so we can get exactly how many to make sure I give you an effective treatment” or something, I guess. And for real. You really don’t need my BMI. You’re a goddamn doctor. If a person looks to you like they weigh too few, many less than the last time you saw them, and you Have Concerns of a legitimate and real medical type, are you going to have them hop up on the scale and check their height and if their BMI skooches them .01 into “REAL LOW NORMAL” instead of “POTENTIAL DANGER” are you just going to not be concerned? OF COURSE NOT, BECAUSE BMI IS STUPID AND YOU HAVE EYEBALLS AND DOCTOR KNOWLEDGE AND A SENSE FOR THESE THINGS. ONE. WOULD. ASSUME.
What I’m saying is, stop checking my height every goddamn time I come in to the doctor. I see some sort of doctor like twice a month. If a vertebra suddenly falls out or something, I promise to alert the nurse who takes my vitals. Otherwise, can we just agree to a rough sameness of height from now until I die? Because I really didn’t need to spend a whole day contemplating how thick the sole of my sneaker is, and how much of my foot is INSIDE the sole and how much is just decorative outer sole, and yeah I gave myself an extra inch when I got my driver’s license when I was 16 but I’m pretty sure I grew into that inch, and am I shrinking? I might have fallen below the original lie number.
You know what, hang on.
Okay, so I was pretty sure I had just psyched myself out about the shrinking thing, because actually I have always been 5’2″ and I don’t have a problem with that, I am not offended by short jokes nor do I think they are funny, because I’m just. Not tall. That’s not funny. It’s not insulting, either. It just is. And sometimes my family likes to joke like hahaha you were never 5’2″ as if I am extraordinarily small, as if any person walking on the street could look at me at a glance and say, oh no, that is not a full 62″, in no world is that human tall enough to be sixty two entire inches of human, but it is true, I have always been 5’2″, and I don’t think it is particularly short, and I don’t ever feel short, except this stupid house – we bought a house, did you know that? Anyway, it’s built for giants and that’s a whole other thing that is probably best served with pictures and I just made all this effort with a ruler because I couldn’t find a tape measure, so you will need to wait.
So it is the dead of night and I am crouched on the floor with a ruler trying to measure upward to my pencil mark, and I was so concentrated on getting it exactly right that I kept losing count of the feet (and thinking back, I did not really need to count the feet) and thinking, “I AM APPROACHING THE MARK TOO FAST, IT’S ONLY BEEN FOUR WALL RULERS.” Which is ridiculous, because I have always been 5’2″, but when the nurse measured me at this last appointment, I forget what kind, I think cardiologist, who cares, she said I was 5’2″ and a quarter and I looked at Phil triumphantly like, see? I have always been 5’2″ and I don’t understand why it’s funny to suggest I was less than that, because while there is nothing wrong with being less than that, nothing at all, I JUST DON’T SEE WHY IT IS FUNNY THAT I WOULD BE ONE NOT TALL HEIGHT INSTEAD OF ANOTHER NOT TALL HEIGHT. I’m just not tall and that is a NORMAL THING TO BE.
Anyway, the doctor was talking and my mind kept wandering to HOW MUCH SOLE IS ON THESE SHOES, and I had pretty well convinced myself, as you can see by the start of this post, which is about six exits back and there isn’t another for 14 more miles, that I had definitely shrunk, because yes the shoes put me over 5’2″, but HOW MUCH SHOE? And as this post went on I realized how ridiculous I was being – something that rarely stops me – that I do not wear platforms or shoes designed for any sort of activity that would require bulk of sole, and also that I totally could have solved this immediately upon arriving home instead of sitting here for a week contemplating my new “I’m not 5’2″ anymore” existence, so I went, just now – well, not just now because I also want to tell a story about Sheldon and probably won’t do that until the morning so this post will sit half finished until then – and I found the ruler and was ready to put this whole thing to rest and also myself to rest, comfortably stretching out the full 62″ I have always been, and anyway, suspense over, I’m 5’1″ and three quarters, so.
How have you been? Me? Same as ever. Promising I’m going to post about a thing and then not doing it, like how a couple hundred words ago I told you I had a story about my dog and the title of this post was even originally about my dog but then I just posted without it anyway, without even taking out the part where I referenced it, knowing full well this post now contains an outright lie about what I will post and when. If you think about it, in these troubling times, it’s really very comforting to know I haven’t changed at all, isn’t it?