Friends Kyle and Michelle recently popped out (technically Michelle did the “popping”) the World’s Cutest Baby.
I’m not exaggerating. Look at this girl.
So the other night, Michelle came over for our all-girls fantasy football league draft. Meaning Michelle (and presumably everyone else in the league) knew what she was doing and chose players strategically while I:
1. Drank wine,
2. Watched The Lion King and
3. Asked Michelle and Boyfriend who they would pick every single round.
In all, I think I came away with a pretty stellar team. Not that I would technically know.
While answering my questions (read: choosing my team for me), Boyfriend also played Baby Whisperer.
And now for a note regarding my parents’ genes.
Mama is five-foot-seven.
Daddy is five-foot-ten.
I’m clearly no scientist, but in my book, my genes should be an average of that of my mother and that of my father, putting me at a solid five-foot-eight (point-five). It’s only fair.
How then, pray tell, did I turn out to be five-foot-three?
Five feet and three inches.
There are gnomes taller than me.
My youngest paternal cousin is taller than me.
I’m lucky to be able to ride roller coasters at theme parks. I still have to climb on my kitchen cabinets to reach above the second shelf. I usually get stuck behind big-headed giant people at the theater or a movie or a concert and have to do that awkward shifting motion every ten minutes to look around them.
But worst of all?
People think I’m still 17.
This past May, Mama and I were shopping here in Indy and happened to go into one of my favorite shoe stores, Aldo. I’m a more frequent customer to the downtown location (as in, the sales girls get excited when they see me walk in. Hello, commission.), but an Aldo’s an Aldo, right?
We walk in, and the sales guy says to me, “Shopping for prom shoes?”
Um. Prom shoes?
If only. Now I’m just a dwarf playing dress-up, loping into the office in mommy’s high heels and too much blush. Don’t get me wrong: I love me some heels. But there’s also a wide world of adorable flats out there, a world I’ll never be able to buy into.
Why, you ask?
Because I’m the 24-year-old that people think is still in eighth grade. That has to show three forms of identification for an adult beverage because I look like I made off with someone’s fake ID. That could probably still get the middle-school-student discount if I ever felt the need to go to a junior high sporting event. (I wouldn’t.)
Let me be clear: Mama and Daddy, I wholeheartedly blame you. Or, more specifically, your DNA. I obviously got the short end of the stick.