Never Ask a Tall Man These Questions

How tall are you?

Would you like it if I asked you about your height, li’l guy? I’ll have you know that I’m over six feet.

How much taller than six feet are you?

Before I answer that, how about I give you the PIN for my A.T.M. card? Oh, wait, you might get jealous of that, too. Because my PIN is my height. It starts with a six and I’ll let you guess the rest.

How’s the weather up there?

I’m tall, not a meteorologist. Though I could probably be one. I’ve got a “Washington wingspan”—we’re talking D.C. to the state on a map. But I could have easily been referring to George Washington, the first President of this sprawling nation, who was six-two.

Can you grab that for me?

I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you down there. Did you say that you needed me to grab something for you? Oh, sure. I mean, us tall men never have anything important that we’re in the middle of doing. Do you think I came to the supermarket to help a bunch of pipsqueaks with their shopping? No, I came here to mess with the lobsters in the tank. Did you know that they scream when you boil them? If I ever buy one, I’m nuking it in the microwave. Yet you never hear anyone dare describe me as merciful. No, it’s “tall” this, “tall” that.

Is six feet really that tall?

I said I’m over six feet. Also, yes. The average height for an American man is five-nine. Being more than two inches shorter than me is pathetic, respectfully. Now I know you didn’t ask, yet, but rest assured that I have friends who are under six feet. And it’s awesome. They might never admit this to me, but I can tell that I’m pretty much their God. Even the religious ones. I don’t think they kept records back then, but Jesus was obviously tall. If you feel “less than” standing next to me, I would avoid Rio de Janeiro at all costs.

Are you sure you’re not five-eleven?

Are you sure your parents truly loved you? I mean, there is absolutely no way you can know that for certain. Even if “I truly love you” were their last words. Whispered to you. From the wreckage of the horrible accident. Recently. I know we’ve had our differences regarding height, but I really am sorry for your loss. If it’s any comfort, just know that they’re buried at least six feet deep in the ground right now.

Do those shoes have a heel on them?

You must be referring to the padded soles of my competitive-running sneakers. Though my gargantuan frame makes participating in a marathon an impossibility due to the increased wind resistance, the extra cushion does come in handy when the fishmonger chases me away from the lobster tank. The linoleum floors of the supermarket are unforgiving, much like society, to tall men.

Are you sure you’re not five-eight?

Fine. Let’s find a measuring tape. I’ll look over here and—

Where are you going?

With my long legs, you’ll never catch me! ♦

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