As you may have noticed, I’m tall.   And every now and then, someone feels compelled to comment on that fact.

This morning as I was riding the elevator to my office, a woman decided to inform me that my height exceeds the norm.  There we were, riding in silence, I considering what I needed to do today, when my fellow passenger broke the silence.

“You’re really tall,” she said.

She didn’t embellish her comment.  She didn’t say, “I envy your height,” or “Did you used to be a model?” or “How the fuck do you breathe up there?”  No, she just said, “You’re really tall,” as if she was giving me vital information that I lacked.

I never know quite how to respond to that.  I mean, first of all, think about all the layers of filters that comment had to go through in her head before she reached the conclusion, Boy, I really need to say this!  But for some reason, she got there and felt compelled to say it.

And what is just as important is what she chose not to say.  For instance, she chose not to say “Good morning,” or “That’s a pretty skirt you’re wearing,” or “Nice weather we’re having today.”  Or even, “Uh…gee, I was going to say something, but nevermind, I’ve thought better of it.”  No, she just blurted out an observation of my height.

So how should I respond?  Usually, I just give a half-smile and say, “Yeah, I am,” or something brilliant like that, while what I’m really thinking is, “Thank you so much for that, Captain Obvious!  I had no idea! I was wondering why all you people were walking around on your knees!”  I’d love to have something clever or interesting to say in response when someone makes that comment.

The one time I tried to say something funny, it didn’t get quite the big belly laugh I had hoped for.  I had been pulled over by a police officer for not coming to a complete stop at a stop sign, and he ordered me out of my car.  When I stepped out onto the street, he looked up at me and said, “Wow, you’re tall!  You must be a basketball player.”

This time, I thought, I’m going to say something clever!   This was my big opportunity.  I was going to have a retort that was witty, entertaining, conversational and charming.

So the cop said, “Wow, you’re tall!  You must be a basketball player!”

And I said, “You’re short!  You must be a cocksucker!”

Which reminds me, if you ever think to yourself that you’d like the opportunity to see what it feels like to be tasered, save yourself the trouble.  It doesn’t feel as refreshing as it seems.

So anyway, I’ve decided that cops don’t have a really great a sense of humor, and of course they must feel really bad about that.  Some of them will even take their anguish out on you.  But I haven’t always had bad experiences with cops.

Another time I was pulled over was by a lady cop.  She was blonde, and so am I, so I figured we would have some good chemistry together, maybe share a few laughs.  But mindful of the last time I was pulled over, I didn’t tell any jokes, lest this cop also get to feeling sorry for herself for not having a really great sense of humor.  So I minded my p’s and q’s with her.  In fact, after being tasered, I was actually pretty nervous.

So when she walked up and demanded to see my drivers license, I’m afraid my nerves kind of got the best of me, and I was having trouble finding it.  I was digging furiously through my purse, but could not for the life of me find my drivers license.  Finally, afraid she would taser me if I couldn’t produce it, I turned to her and pleaded for help.  Because we were both blonde and had an instant bond, I felt I could trust her to help me.

“I can’t find it,” I said.  “What does it look like?”

She looked exasperated, but because of our bond she didn’t taser me immediately.  “It’s square,” she said, “and it has your picture on it.

So I dug down in my purse again and produced what I thought was my license.  It was square, and I could clearly see a picture of me on it.  Later on, I figured out that it was a pocket mirror I keep in my purse, but at the time I was too nervous to notice.

“Here it is!” I declared with relief, and handed it over to the blonde police officer.

The cop looked intently at the mirror for what seemed like a long moment, and just as I was realizing to my horror that it wasn’t my drivers license, she looked up and handed it back to me.

“Well,” she said.  “You should have told me you were a cop.  Have a nice day.”  And off she rode on her motorcycle.

Which goes to prove that in addition to having more fun, we blondes do share a special bond with each other.  And she was smart and polite enough not to even comment on my height.

A lawyer on the opposing side of a lawsuit commented on my height the other day.  He said, "I'm glad you're tall.  It gives me more of you to dislike."  Because we were telling jokes back and forth, I replied, "Do you even have a penis, you short little shit?"  Woo-hoo, did he turn red trying to suppress his laughter! I love that kind of professional banter between attorneys.

Many people will tell me not to worry about height comments.  They say comments about how tall I am are a compliment.  But do you think I really like it when people point a finger at me and tell me I'm big?  Or do you think I enjoy it when children scream that I am a giant?  Do you think I like when people walk past me and then turn and stare or whisper behind my back about my height?

Of course I do!  They're not calling me a freak, they're just impressed with my ability to hang from the Empire State Building and swat at airplanes, and I understand that.  So many tall women get huge (sic) complexes about being tall, but not me.  No, sir!  I know that men aren't really intimidated by me.  I appeal to their young, childhood spirits.  After all, what growing boy doesn't like to climb trees?