Little People, Big World
A friend set us up. Never a good idea, but one that is always appealing to lovers of car accidents and reality TV. We met at a movie theater and he was late. I waited around for 10 minutes or so and was about to leave when I saw a short (and I mean short) guy in his early 30s bee-lining for me. He must have asked me five or six times who I was, just to “make sure” he had the right person. Weird, right? Yeah, I soon found out why he was so worried. He paid for the tickets, but burned chivalry to the ground when he said, “It’s interesting to note that women these days are all for feminism until it comes to paying for things” and then followed it up with, “By the way, she didn’t tell me how… large you would be.”
I’m sorry, did you say large? Look, I’m not small okay, but I am definitely height-weight proportionate. Large? Please. If I was “large” then he was “extra small.” So I mumbled something about how she hadn’t mentioned that he lived in a tree and made cookies with the Keebler Elves. We were off and running. Before the movie started, we traded insults back and forth in what I thought was a teasing, playful way. Until he called me Sasquatch. Twice now, my height and weight. TWICE. So I mentioned that he resembled Napoleon.
The movie started just in time. We sat in awkward silence through the two hours of torture that was Constantine. Why didn’t I leave, right? Remember what I said in the beginning about people who like to look at car accidents? When it was done, and we were walking (fleeing) to the parking lot, I asked him what kind of car he drove. Just to make conversation, okay? I didn’t really care if he piloted the Enterprise at this point, I was just making the effort.
“Jeep Cherokee,” he grunted.
“Really? Me, too! Only I drive a Jeep Grand Cherokee! Aren’t they the same?” I asked, excited at last that we had something to talk about besides my apparently hairy and ginormous proportions.
“Yeah, The Grand’s just bigger. Like you,” he said straight faced.
Let it go, girl, breathe.
“Well, mine has a huge dent in it anyway,” I offered.
“Why? Did you lean against it Sasquatch?”
What did he? Oh, hell no, not this bullshit again.
“What’s your problem? Why did you turn into such a huge asshole?” I asked.
See, I was even trying to be nice by implying that he hadn’t been an enormous prick the entire evening.
“I wouldn’t have had to be an asshole if you didn’t turn into a giant bitch!”
I shoved him. But not in an “I-want-to-fight” kinda way; more in a “I-can-snap-you-like-a-twig” kinda way.
He turned and kind of fast-walked away from me.
Because running would’ve made him less of a man.
