Maybe I should be more verbose once in a while, to take the chill off. I forgot to tell you about the traumatic event that occurred last Saturday. The scene was J/A/L's party. I'd just met Katie.
Me: Goddamn you're tall!
Me: You must be what, 5 11?
Katie: 5 10.
I notice that my eyes are at the level of Katie's nose.
Me: You can't be 5 10, I'm 5 10.
Katie (rolls eyes): A---, I hate to break this to you. I've had this conversation with many boys over the years. YOU ARE NOT 5 10.
Me (sputteringly indignantly): But... but...
Me: Look, I went to the doctor a while back for a check up. And the nurse measured my height, and told me I was 5 9 and three quarters. I said to her, "No, that can't be right, I'm 5 11. Can you measure me again?" So she measured me again. 5 9 and 3/4. It turns out that I had gotten so used to boys shorter than me telling me they were 5 10 that I'd just started assuming I was 5 11. But I'm not. I'm 5 10.
Me: But... but... are you in heels?
I look down, she's in socks.
Me: But... but...
Katie: YOU'RE NOT 5 10!!
Me: (disconsolate silence)
Do you realize how shocking this was? For 25 years I'd thought of myself as 5 10. Now an inch has been rudely chopped off. ROBBED OF MY MANHOOD