I tower over barstools and harshly intimidate ants, beetles, or any other insect that may be perusing around the house. At a lofty 5'2”, I am a mammoth, a beast. Maybe people don't breed heightened humans, but of course that theory gets thrown out the window every time I step through the door, under which, I do not have to duck.
My body is my temple. I must have been constructed by some drunken elves during the after-Christmas party. As they chiseled away, sipping on fifths of Jack or Jim or any other brown liquor that begins with a man's name, they probably giggled as they molded my elfin feet, especially that oddly shaped little toe that looks more like a big, ivory jelly bean.
“There's a hole in your ear?”
Yes, there's a hole in my ear, and I'm not talking about the ones that allow sound waves to infiltrate my cluttered brain. I attribute it to a sign of genius, but those who know me would suggest otherwise. The hole does have its necessary functions, like oozing of a substance when I am ill, or, of course, being a topic of many unique discussions.
Actually, no elves or ostensible creatures were present at my birth, just my mom and my dad. I never mathematically figured out how a five foot ten man and a five foot seven woman could give birth to a five foot two creature. I may be the shortest person in my family, including my extended, extended family. Perhaps I got my height, or the lack thereof from a great-great cousin who supposedly ran a brothel.
Like most beings, I often questioned my birth. Since I had four, obnoxious sisters I questioned theirs as well.
The first year of my life was grand. I played, and people gushed over my light blond hair and my blue eyes. The cutest dresses, although homemade or hand-me-downs, clothed me. It was early on that I realized that it is not the clothes that make the woman; it is the woman that makes the clothes. My insight and content ended just as my mom toted home a pair of brand new, more adorable-than-me twin girls. I remember watching everyone dote over the insidious duo; that was my downfall. No longer could I tempt attention with my bouncing, rolling locks, my fabulous red sandal shoes, or my brown and white gingham dress. As does any jealous sibling, I insisted that there was a mix-up at the hospital, and they did not belong to us. I tried to scheme everyone into thinking that they were some form of alternative life and would, if grown, shed their skin and destruct destroy mankind.
All of my wishes and dreams evolved revolved around finding a way to trigger a Twinnie Scandal. I wanted my own identity; I didn't want to be the big sister of the twins anymore. Life was stripped away from me the moment they entered my life, so I was on a quest to find my soul, my sanity, and my mommy.
I commenced my endeavor by scowering scouring the outside of our house for the perfect, isolated area. I needed my own space. The size of the backyard was a quarter of an acre, so I had many places from which to choose for my secluded, super-secret haven, which would, in turn, also become the headquarters for my mommy search because my real mommy would not ever spawn such devil children as those twins. I hunted through the woods behind the house; under the car hood that served as the creek's bridge; behind the drooping, saddened willow tree. Nothing seemed the perfect spot for my scheme until I spotted, at the bottom of a small, perfect for rolling down hill, a little locale surrounded by trees; the dirt ground was perfectly flat. The trees guarded the area, not even allowing sunlight to creep in and catch a peek of the soil. If I had a roll of caution tape, I would have taped the area off to avoid intruders or armies of twins who willed to take over my land. Instead, I left the perfect locale, ran into the house and drew with a piece of scrap paper and a broken crayon I found among the other colorful, shattered crayons in the old Maxwell House coffee tin. I took a moment to smell the scent of old, amassed crayons and began the sketch.
The blueprint, impressive for a young architect, was my guide to finding the best tools necessary for the club's construction. I assembled a myriad of different sized sticks, logs, branches, and the occasional foliage (for decoration decorative purposes only). Once I had gathered about twenty pieces, which is all I thought I needed, I precisely layered the pieces of wood atop one another. The immaculate construction of the first three layers made me think that once my plight was over, I could begin a log cabin, super-secret hideaway construction business. But, as with everything, my plan went awry. Being that I had no tools, aside from the materials, frustration amounted as I reached the third layer, at which point I had to leave enough space for a door. Without the proper tools, no door could be constructed, and I would have to build around me. Because I loved to be fed and knew that I could not live inside the cabin forever, I hastily gave up the attempt. I scrapped the idea and along with the scrap paper upon which the idea first took shape. There was a reason why I was not an eight-year-old engineering prodigy.
