I feel very tall today. Not exactly sure why. I’ve been the same height, 69 inches, since I was a freshman in high school. Yes, I was that awkwardly tall, over-achieving student-athlete who relished church group activities and exercised aggression through late night tee-peeing and detonating dry ice bombs in isolated industrial parking lots. But tonight for some reason, walking alone through my haunts of New York City, I felt very tall. I both love and loathe nights like these. Feeling so completely alone that you can’t help but love the feeling of aloneness. It’s nights like these that I’m reminded that I will always be the only person that I can always rely on. Therefore, on these few and far between moments, I find complete fascination and disgust with the multitudes of couples found walking hand-in-hand, laughing out loud in their obscene coupled happiness. Ah, lo, the joys of having someone to love you when you look like shit. Thank god for my overweight rescued cat.
But this feeling of tallness overwhelmed my thoughts as I sauntered around the West Village and through Washington Square Park. Two men proposed marriage to me in one minute. One actually said, “Can I marry you?” which I found to be very funny. Can you? Or will I? Being amused by the grammar in ramblings of drug addicts at 11pm makes me smile.
Are my boots exploiting a bigger heel than I am used to? No. I only have one pair of boots that I wear consistently. I wear them too much actually. My broken fifth metatarsal was barking at me as I loped around the neighborhood without a second thought. So perhaps everyone around me was too small?
I resolve to standing tall, drinking my NYC tap water, and dancing to the salsa that is currently spinning on my record player.