Someone insinuated that I'm short today...again

I have an awesome job. Essentially, I get paid to talk about why I love Harvard. Thusly, I was more than happy to work Harvard's booth at a college convention for the National Urban League's college fair today. Like I said, I love talking to prospective applicants about the wonders of Hahvahd. So I'm wearing my school spirit T-shirt. I'm sporting a happy face and a peppy (but not overwhelming) demeanor. I'm chatting it up with talented peeps from all sorts of minority communities. Tell me this job isn't sweet.

But apparently, wearing the T shirt and sitting behind the booth with all of the Harvard pamphlets just doesn't tell everyone that I am indeed a student at the aforementioned institution. Once again, something has gotten lost in translation simply because I am a petite female. Here's a recount of a conversation I had with a rising high school freshman who just wants to be a psychologist (she unfortunately couldn't really pronounce the name of her dream profession, but I guess she's got a few years to figure it out).

Kid: "Wait, so you go to Harvard?"
Me: "Yes I do!" <--Exclamation point for extra spirit and pizzazz and sparkles and shit.
"WOAH!" But you're so young!"
"Oh no, no, I'm nineteen. I know, I'm just pretty short."
"Oh my gawwwwwd! I totally though you were like, fourteen!"

So apparently, I can pass for a child prodigy. I guess that's cool? More ironic about this interaction was that I was sitting in a chair with my legs hidden behind a table skirt, meaning that she based her assumption that I was a pre-teen solely on the height of my torso. Is my mid-section really that small?! I always thought it was in the legs.

Here's a quick PSA to everyone who notices that I'm below average height (so, everyone) : I will be twenty years old in a few months and I do not have dwarfism. If you decide that you must announce that I look like a teeny-bopper, YOU ARE NOT THE FIRST PERSON TO DO SO. In fact, I prefer short jokes to flat out statements that I'm tiny (I'll probably totally regret saying this). At least if what you're telling me has some sort of punchline, I can assume that you're willing and able to think creatively, rather than simply notice and state the very painfully obvious.

And if I tell you my age, you don't have to respond with how young you thought I was. I know, I know. I'll appreciate it when I'm 40. But not until then.

On the upside, I'm going to be a freaking adorable little old lady one day.

Wal*Mart: It's always a show

It really gives the world a certain sparkle.

Wal*Mart: A Play in Two Acts

Disclaimer: This is a real account of the 20 or so minutes that I spent in a check out line this afternoon. I almost changed to a faster moving register, but I stayed where I was because once the show started, I couldn't stop watching. The dialog below is written exactly as it was spoken because honestly, the original is too good to edit. In short, a cashier needed something to be checked by a manager in order to finish a woman's transaction. The manager took his sweet time to get the message and come on over. The two women in line in front of me are having absolutely none of this and decided to make a massive scene. In Act Two, I discuss Act One with the equally amused cashier. In the following dialog, capital letters indicate yelling.

Location: Wal*Mart - checkout line

Time: 3pm

Cast of Characters:
Me
Cashier
Manager
Woman 1 (40something, overweight, wearing sweatpants, very unwashed hair that's pulled back in a scrunchie)
Woman 2 (also 40something, overweight, wearing leggings with footie handles, poorly striped dyed hair, smells like Dial soap and sweat)

Act one

Woman 1: WE NEED A MANAGAH OR SOMETHIN' OVER HERE. LET'S GO LET'S GO.
Woman 2: LIIIIITLE FASTER PLEASE. I GOT THINGS TO DO. I gotta clean the house and make dinner. I DON'T GOT ALL DAY HERE.
Woman 1: MY DEPENDS CAN ONLY HOLD SO MUCH. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Woman 2: THAT'S IT! HERE WE GO. FINALLY. (To cashier). See, that's all you need. You gotta yell to LET YOUR VOICE BE HEARD. HAHAHAAA
**Both women clap hands for the approaching manager

Manager sorts out the problem in a few seconds and the poor woman who was waiting the assistance clutches her bags, covers her face (which is the color of a tomato at this point) and practically sprints out of the store. Women 1 and 2 complete their transactions (making crude comments and laughing at one another all the while) and saunter out of the store as if other patrons weren't staring at them, gaping

Act two

Cashier: Sorry about the wait.
Me: No problem. That was...entertaining, at least.
Cashier: Yeah... Well, that's Wal*Mart for you.
Me: Tell me about it. Welcome home, right?
Cashier: Are you from around here?
Me: Yeah, this town. But college is in Boston, so coming back is always interesting
**Look of understanding is shared
Cashier: Got it. I can imagine...

Tattoo for my bicep?

I hope this guy gets a raise. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he won't be able to stay behind that register for the rest of his life. He might just go crazy. But he will leave. I could just tell.

On another note, I wish that I had crazy memory and stenographic skills. That way, I could remember and record every ludicrous conversation that I overhear. I think that stenographic memory would trump photographic memory any day.

Rather unfortunately true.