If the tiny shoe fits…
Napoleon?Napoleonette! If I’m not tired of being bossed around by little ladies with big attitudes, then I’m Queen Elle-izabeth. How many of these precious little pearls am I going to have to encounter before the stereotype is broken?
Okay, you are short. I wanted to be short, too, to get attention, but I am exactly medium-everything. You have been told all your life how wonderful your dainty little hands are and how cute your squeaky voice is. This is akin to putting you in a shoebox with a bunch of mice and playing Cinderella with your ego, I know, but why do you have to take it out on me?
My best friend in grade school was this short girl whose mother was a first grade teacher. Man, she thought she ran that institution. She told you how it was in no uncertain terms, using her mother’s lofty position as an authority figure of children to back up her little whims.
“Everyone bring Twinkies in your lunch tomorrow!” she would shout in her Garanimals. What if I am on a diet, microbyatch? Not all of us have the metabolism of a hummingbird and can just burn off the calories by yammering at top speed. (I had the metabolism…and the mouth, but some of my other friends didn’t. I think she was trying to make them fat so she could ride on their backs more easily.) Drill sergeant? Pill sergeant!!!
So the heads of thesebossy babies grow much faster than anything else when they grow up (sort of up) to be mini-adults. How can an ego surpass the mass of a planet? By working with me!
I had the pleasure of entertaining two shorties on a painting job for a while. I knew exactly when and how to eat, drink, sleep, wipe my ass, wash my hands, call my boyfriend, torture the boss, eat again, hold the paint brush, sweep the floor, tape the trim, talk to them on their smoke breaks, and breathe in their miniaturesmoke rings.I was never alone in my mind. They invaded me…fighting each other on my forehead, chewing on my earlobes by climbing up my collar bones, and screaming at each other through my head from their comfortable seats on my earring swings.
I know you think you have to tell everyone what to do because you are afraid nobody will listen to you. I know! Everyone can hear your voice, though, because it is loud and squeaky, and you may be short, but you are not short in the next county. I heard you, I swear. (You are tall enough to see me nod.)
Guys love short chicks. On whom else’s head can they set a beer can while she is standing straight up talking to his privates? Whom else can he spin like a top when she is on top? My legs would catch on his throat and break something off.
In short, I want to cut my last few prejudices down to clarinetists and people who eat Jello, so please find a countrywho needs a dictator and run it, or break the stereotype and stop gnawing on my leg.