I have big feet. Really huge ones.The width of one foot is slightly akin to the width of a duck’s webbed digits.The length,only a few inches below that of the ostrich’s legs. See,I wish I was exaggerating.There are no pros whatsoever to having big feet,only woes. I’ll tell you why.
I went shopping with my ‘big sister'( She likes to call herself that) one day. She was feeling generous so I was given an opportunity to get something too. Then I saw it. It was one to die for. A chic, red,open-toe baby.Smooth on the sides, tapering to a perfect end and lightly sprinkled with sequins. My mind was already rummaging through my closet, finding the perfect matching dress and it was affordable too! Slipping my foot into the shoe, the comfort of the padded interior welcomed me almost as if begging me to stay. I inched my foot farther,and farther and farther and fa- hoh! it’s stuck! The shoe couldn’t fit. Cringing and disappointed, I kicked the stupid shoe away. Yes,stupid.There’s only one to blame for this- my height.
Now don’t you go defending it. It’s the theory of balance. My theory, which states that ‘the longer the pole, the longer it’s base to keep steady’. So yeah, because I’m tall,I need to have big feet else I’ll be a total klutz.There you go!
We’ve not started on the struggles of being tall yet.Hours spent at our baby christening are being shredded to waste by terms like ‘odogo‘, ‘longie’ and the most horrifying,’taller‘. What?! Taller?! Taller than who?! Taller that what?! And when nobody wants to reach for the bag out of sheer laziness,it is us who are used as substitutes for stools.
Also, it’s amazing to hear short – sorry,vertically-challenged – ladies say they want tall guys.So that who will take the vertically-challenged guys? I won’t even delve into the gutters of our relationship struggles yet, it is but for an appointed time.And.. fitting my legs into the trotro these days too is never without a fight but I manage to do that without complaints.I’m a Superwoman,yo!
But there are happy times. We are the only ones allowed to be models,coupled with a perfect figure that is, to grace the glamourous runway with our slender gracefulness. Our mothers can always spot us in the crowd and say, “That’s my baby!” and we have the pleasure of a VIP seat at the premiering of the professor’s balding head.That’s like the chicken on ghanaian jollof. Even deeply satisfying is when we get to give that irksome friend a resounding knock on his occiput with ease and watch him struggle to return the favour. Aaah! Such bliss.
So it’s a shout-out to all five-foot-eightpointsomethings. The struggle is real but we’re surviving in this crazy world of midgets (oops!) and we stay winning! Cheers!