“Good lord, why are you wearing heels, girl? You’re already so damn tall,” Female Pharmacist asked.

“I like to intimidate people,” I said, laughing and throwing up awkward Godzilla arm gestures while stomping around.

“Yeah, but you’re so tall, you definitely don’t need them,” she said, talking aloud to her fellow pharmacist comrades.

As I walked my drugs to my car, I grew increasingly irked.

She was just making small talk, Christy, calm down. She’s not aware of your inner struggles. But maybe you should run home and change into flats real quick? Jesus, Christy, you’re going to work, nobody cares. Well, why is that old fucker staring at me? Yeah, bitch, I’m tall. Wanna fight? I’ll smash you with my giant heels.

My height is the small-talk go-to for people I exchange idle chatter with — not the diplomatic, “How’s your day?” “Heavens to Betsy, it’s hotter than a rhinoceros’ vulva out here,” or “Slap my ass and call me Shiny, that is one glorious sunset, isn’t it?”

Instead: “Holy shit, how tall are you?” “You’re giant for a girl.” “How’s the air up there?” “Why would you stand in front of me at a concert?” “You must have a really long vaginal canal,” etc.

People with normal brains that aren’t laced with self-esteem holes would probably take these things in stride. But I’m in repair mode of a (mild) lifetime bout of body dysmorphia. I’m finally becoming more comfortable with my physical attributes.

That bitch knocked me off my pedestal. (Sorry for calling you a bitch.)

For those within “normal” range of all the spectrums, taking offense to height comments may seem silly. But like any physical attribute, when people are vocal about those that loom outside “normal,” it can cripple confidence. Especially when it BEGS TO BE BROUGHT UP IN KANYE CAPS ALL THE TIME.

Don’t cry for me, Boulder. I’m better, way better. You should’ve seen me in college. Sometimes I wouldn’t go out with friends because I didn’t want to feel “too tall.”

But now I walk tall, I don’t duck in photos, I hold my head high, I let my confidence own the space I’m occupying and I assert how tall I am when someone asks. I wear heels more often. I was gifted these special qualities, dammit, so I’m trying to see them as beautiful me.

So, to answer your question, Female Pharmacist, I liked the shoes, so I bought them. And I wore them, because I utilize things I purchase.

But since you woke the giant menacing creature, another thing: Status quo tells me I have “gargantuan” feet. Like so fucking huge that only three shops in the Denver Metro area carry my size. (Boulder, you’re not in the mix.) So, when I find a cute pair of shoes — heels or not — I buy them. And I wear them.

Next time the need to point out a physical attribute on a stranger that peeks outside of “normal” strikes, here’s a secret: They know, fool. Instead ask normal things like, “Holy goat balls, did you see those two prairie dogs smashing genitals?” (But be sure there are no self-loathing rodents nearby.)

I’ll return to my regularly-scheduled filth next week. I just wanted to bring more attention to my height.

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