P,
Oh my petite little friend, please don’t let the ways of the real world interfere with your fantasy that a good pair of stilettos is all that keeps you from the arms of Brad Pitt. I know your professed interest is in running the free world but your more compelling suburban survival dream involves little more than a few inches on your stunningly delicate frame to put you in the arms of the man who only has eyes for Angelina.
What you little people don’t fully understand is that although height is certainly an asset it can also leave you feeling less than able to play damsel in distress, a skill mightily necessary for avoiding almost any domestic or professional chore. In addition, my dearest, when one is blessed with the facial bones of a forty year old matron at twelve, as I have been, there is an assumption of competence which cannot be escaped in almost any situation.
As I approach the real 4-0 in the next SEVERAL years, I may finally come into my own, in full facial bloom, so to speak. Now, when I hear "madam" repeatedly I won’t angrily respond that I am but a dewey maiden. Instead I will happily comply with any request one has for a dowager like me and wait only for the inevitable shrinkage, and perhaps hump in my back, that will diminish my own stature.
The good news is that all those plump faced maidens mistaken for twenty when forty years of age are headed in my own disintegrating direction as well. At seventy we should all be even and, at last, this shrewish hunched over hag will have the last laugh.
Oh, and I too would be thrilled if Hillary were elected President. That was your main point, wasn’t it, my dearest Republican friend?
Faithfully,
C.
