Went to the doctor today for a regular check-up. All was fine…except the nurse told me my height was 5’7″ – not 5’8″ like I’ve been telling people for decades. Decades.
Over the years nurses at various other establishments have also proclaimed me to be 5’7″, but I didn’t believe them. Until today I chose to believe that one nurse, that one time way-way back in the stone ages, when I was young and lithe and she measured me at 5’8″. This became a part of my identity — I was a “tall” (or “tall-ish”) girl — just like when a seamstress told me that one of my arms was slightly longer than the other. Then, I became known as the “tall girl with freaky long, mismatched arms”. (No, not really. I don’t think anyone called me that…to my face.)
I admit that I’m mildly troubled and puzzled by this new fact about myself. Was I standing on my tiptoes that day long ago? Was I slouching this morning? Or, has my spine started its descent into old age already because, you know, I’d really like to be advanced in something?
Huh. At least the nurse didn’t tell me my weight.