I’m having an identity crisis.
Here’s the thing. I was a little kid and then I grew up and I grew taller and taller until I was 5’6″ and then I stopped. And I spent oh, 20 years or so believing I was 5’6″. And that was fine because I had no reason to think otherwise.
But then about a year and a half ago, I went to the doctor for a full physical, and when they measured me, the nurse said, “Great, so you’re 5’4″.”
It probably doesn’t seem like a big deal, but it’s sort of like when you realize you’ve accidentally been telling people you’re one year older or younger than you are. It’s disorienting.
I was disoriented.
I had just lost height I thought I had.
If we’ve been friends long enough, you may even remember seeing my disoriented rant on Facebook. “What the hell?” it probably said, “How does one just go from being 5’6″ to being 5’4″?! Do I have to change my lifestyle now?! And who told me I was 5’6″ to begin with?!”
WELL DO I HAVE A STORY FOR YOU LOT.
Today I went to a meet and greet with my new doctor. I’ve been having a hell of a time dealing with rude, incompetent doctors for the last few months and I finally – hallelujah! – got in with one of my BFF’s doctors.
(She’s totally awesome, by the way. Yay!)
Because it was my first visit, I had to fill out all of the standard paperwork, and then a nurse took me aside for height and weight.
I stood under her giant ruler thing, already well aware of my height.
“Great,” she said, making a note on her clipboard, “so you are…5’6″.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You’re 5’6″?” she repeated, clearly not sure what I was getting at.
“Oh, great. Yeah. I knew that.” I laughed.
And on the inside I was like, “THIS AGAIN?!?!”
Lesson learned: It doesn’t actually matter how tall you are, but if somebody asks you, it would be NICE TO KNOW THE TRUTH.
I’m almost 27 and I have no idea how tall I actually am.