By now, it’s safe to say that anyone who hangs out here is well aware that I’m tall. And, because I’ve been so since the day I was born, I’ve heard ‘em all: stretch, slink, how’s the weather up there, all the old standards have been rolled out over and over. I’m still amused when people comment on it the minute they meet me. Maybe folks think I haven’t noticed that the majority of men’s heads reach my armpits. The good news is that I can always blame my constant state of ditziness on the thin air found at my altitude.
But, every now and then, someone hurls out a zinger that just about knocks me out. The other night I went to a dinner party. Naturally, I was thrilled to be invited to the home of a new friend, especially since Rusty had been out East all week and I was on the brink of starvation. I walked into a stunningly beautiful kitchen. The fine fromage and gourmet meats were laid out; the prawns were prawning, the duck was ducking, the martinis were shaking, all the makings for a perfect evening.
I was then introduced to the other guests and within two minutes it came, like always, unbidden and a propos of nothing: “Sure you’re nothing but a piece of string with eyes.” Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. The former heavyweight champion of comments, “my tongue would be dry half way up your leg,” long held by a five-foot-nothing guy named Darrel, has been dealt a crushing blow.
For once, I had little to say, other than, “I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard that one before.” No easy feat after 45 years. I’m not sure why people feel compelled to comment on my stately stature. Imagine if I went around saying, “Sure you’re nothing but an egg on two legs,” to everyone below a certain height and above a certain weight. At least I know their fists would have little chance of landing anywhere near my face so high above their reach.
Who cares I say. It won’t be the last time I receive unwanted attention about my apparently defining physical attribute. I’m not so tall that my skin has been stretched perilously thin. I can take it. But, just for fun, show me how it’s done, Finders. Hit me with your best shot—a snappy comeback I can whip out next time. I’ll start you off with a snippet of snark from my super-model like friend with whom I see (and stand) eye to eye, “Don’t hate me ’cause you ain’t me.”