Being and Nothingness

Other people are almost always surprised to hear how tall I am (well, I guess, strictly speaking, am not):  they assume me to be taller.  I never assume me to be taller, of course, since I know how tall I am.  

(Having said this, here is a vaguely interesting fact about me and my height:  I am extremely vain about my shortness.  I love being short - luuuuhhhhhhhve it.  Almost the most certain way to make me happy is to remark on my lack of tallness.  If you do this using the word "small" or "little," it's like petting a cat in the sun: I practically smirk with pleasure.)

Tonight when I arrived at tango, however, I discovered I had left one of my tango shoes behind. This meant that if I wanted to stay and dance, which I did, I had to dance in the flats I was wearing.  Which I did.  And for the first time in a long time, I had a realisation: I am really short.  There was Dave, he of The Cheek, whose face at the all-night milonga and at every milonga since then has been right at the level of my face.  In order to dance at this usual level with him tonight, I had to go up on my toes!  And when I stopped to talk to my VTTT, he was HUGE.  I think he had to lean down, and I certainly had to do that thing where I bend  over backwards a little bit (incidentally, he remarked that I looked "diminutive," another good word.  I love my VTTT!).

Who knew 2.5 inches could make such a difference? (yes, yes, that joke occurred to me, too.  I mean 2.5 inches of shoe heel.)