Mother Nature

I'm short. I'm not petite. I'm not vertically challenged. I'm just short. After 34 years I still haven't come to grips with it yet. Every pair of shoes I own have heels on them - even my flip flops. As I was primping before we left to our first of 2 parties today, I stared into the mirror and pondered...

What it would be like to be 6 inches taller? Would it have hurt anyone to give me a few more inches? Was sixty inches all that was available?

I then looked cross eyed at my hair, of which I'm still growing out a horrible cut from 2 years ago, and lamented on how I desperately want it to grow longer, faster, thicker. It also needs a good hair cut. It'll be painful, but just 6 more weeks when I'm back in California I'll get one.

And seriously, could my boobs hang any lower? It wouldn't hurt if they too were a few inches higher. After kids and the Katz family genes, they're more like marbles in sacks.

The girls got my thin as onion skins finger and toenails too. They've always been ugly. They've always grown in odd directions. They've never been my finer feature. Their growth could slow down a little bit. I have an idea - can we transplant growth from my nails to my hair?

As I snap back into reality, I realize that none of this can actually be changed; I'll forever be stuck wearing high heels, I'll never be satisfied with a haircut or hair length, this summer I need to invest in a great pull-them-up bra, and my finger and toenails always need to be painted.

I guess I can deal. I don't want to deal, I wish I didn't have to deal, but I will deal. Thankfully life has handed me only a few lemons. I'm going to use them to make sangria.