There are 2 kinds of gas stations. There’s GhettoGas, where one purchases things with safety seals on them, such as 32 oz. Diet Snapple. And then there’s SuburbaGas, with an array of fresh fruit and organic coffee.
Okay. I still wouldn’t touch that fruit. But when there’s a line at Starbuck’s, I’ll willingly hit SuburbaGas for caffeine. Mornings at SuburbaGas are usually packed with a collection of cops and armored van drives, and at least once a week, I engage in conversation with Mohammed the cashier who asks me the same question every single time.
“Going to work?”
This morning, however, as I approached the counter with my bucket of coffee, I found myself blocked by the gigantic lottery ticket man and his boxes of lottery tickets. He turned around and loudly screamed, “Hi honey! You’re tall! Are you six feet tall?”
Oh my god. Anyone who knows me knows that I hate being tall. It’s not my fault. When you’re 13 years old and 5’11”, the damage done cannot be reversed.
“Um…” I nervously stammered. “In my bare feet I’m 5’11”, thank you very much.”
“Well I’ve got three daughters!” He yelled. “All of ‘em over 6 feet!”
It was as if he were bragging about his prize cattle.
“You must be very proud.”
“They all play sports. You play volleyball? Basketball?”
“I used to. But I don’t anymore. I lack both skill and grace. I merely hunch.”
“Ha! You should be proud of your height! Look at those legs! You’re gorgeous!”
“Thank you. I hate being tall.”
“Well, you’re stupid.”
Like an 80 year old with osteoporosis, I scrunched down and bought my coffee, passing lottery giant popping his medication at the front door. Lamenting my freakishness, I walked into work and vented to my co-workers, pointing out that in addition to my being a complete medical oddity and constantly forced to pretend to like it, I’m often asked to reach things for the elderly in supermarkets.
"Oh, me too." Laughted Ben. "That happens all the time."
"Yeah, Ben. But you didn't spend 2 years in therapy just to muster the courage to wear heels..."