Bling & Zing

This weekend I had the opportunity to go out with some friends to enjoy one of my favorite local musicians.  Happy to do it, but also a bit sad to be going without Dr. D (since he shares the same affinity for this particular musician), I decided to engage in a ritual that always makes me feel better and also reminds me of what a wonderful man my husband is:

I cleaned and polished this pretty little rock he bestowed upon my left hand 3.5 years ago. {I also fueled up with caffeine since Dr. D's absence combined with wiggle-worm J-dog as a new bed partner has made my nights somewhat restless.}

I figured at the very least, it'd serve as something that caught my eye throughout the evening and reminded me of him, and perhaps it would even be a deterrent to unwelcome advances while I was---how do you say?---out with my girrrrls.

It certainly did the former, but after something rather peculiar happened to me that evening, I'm beginning to think now that I should have also worn a prominent sign that said "My husband can kick your ass, and so can I."

For those of you who know me personally, you know that I am of a particularly impressive stature (at first I thought about saying "large," but I think "impressive" has the connotation I'm going for).  Others may have discerned this, as I've blogged about needing jeggings with a 36" inseam.  Regardless, you should know: I am very tall, and most of the time I love it.  Exceptions to my love for my height would be during the following occasions: (1) When I walk by a cute pair of shoes with a heel but am stopped from buying them by the fact that wearing them would make me over 6'5''---and then I also remember I never learned how to walk in heels because of that very reason; (2) Shopping for jeans... it's just downright infuriating; (3) Situations like this past Friday night.

What happened: I was enjoying a conversation with a friend after the concert, and briefly glanced backwards only to be accosted by the bright flash of a camera phone.  Behind me stood a very short man, who appeared to be posing for a picture behind me in what could only be understood as a visual comparative of his shortness and my tallness.  The BACKSIDE of my tallness, forever immortalized in some stranger's phone, no doubt to be posted with some snarky comment on facebook, twitter, tumblr---you name it, I'm sure this jerk is on it.  I imagine that he flashed some sort of impish grin and tossed a slimy thumbs-up to the camera.  Forgive my language, but the douchebaggery of it all was simply astonishing.

What I said: Nothing, unfortunately. I was too taken aback, and the group of people I was with were on their way out.

What I should have said: Of course, we all know what they say about hindsight.  Had I been more in my element, I would have demanded the picture be erased, and I think any one of the following responses would have sufficed:

• "Well now we all know your level of class is as low as your center of gravity."
• "Excuse me, Mr. Hobbit.  Mind if we erase that?"
• "I am far too much woman for you to handle, little guy."
• "And this is why you don't have a girlfriend."
• "Here's my husband's phone number.  If you continue to treat women like this, I'm guessing you'll need a good ENT in the next couple of years---what with all the face-slapping I anticipate in your future."