The other day I was rocking my favorite pair of booties . . .
Let’s just take a pause and ask God to bless the human being that invented the bootie.
You could literally be wearing a muumuu with a cat embroidered on the front, throw on a pair of booties and then suddenly it’s like you walked right out of New York Fashion week and someone’s pulling you aside asking you if your outfit is from the newest designer whose name you can’t pronounce.
Anyway, my booties make me 6’2”.
I’m not kidding.
My new favorite person, who is also super tall, asked me how I do it.
Confused, I said I put my shoes on my feet and then I walk around.
Realizing that I’m an idiot, she clarified her question and asked, “How do you wear high heels since you’re already so tall?”
I don’t always.
I remember being incredibly self-conscious about how tall I was in high school. Then, one day, by the grace of God, I had an encounter with a woman who, I am not kidding you, looked identical to Meryl Streep in the Devil Wears Prada. I was wearing a beautiful dress, but I had paired it with ballet flats and she asked why I wasn’t wearing heals instead.
I told her that since I was tall, the laws of nature dictate that I shouldn’t.
She told me that was stupid.
The next day I went out and bought my first pair of stilettos.
It was glorious.
And I’ve never turned back.
Kind of . . .
Sometimes, I hate being tall.
A few weeks ago I was talking to a friend about a guy that I liked. As per usual girl conversation, we were over-analyzing the crap out of that whole deal until she finally said. “Do you think he goes for cute and little?”
Yes. Of course he does.
Sometimes there are perks to looking like an Amazonian woman. Other times, there aren’t. Like if a guy has a legitimate concern that if your date doesn’t go well you might rip out both of his arms.
That’s fair. I get that. I understand how you might be emotionally attached to your limbs. Makes a ton of sense.
In fact, I frequently say I’m not interested in certain people because I could “break their arms in half with my pinkie.”
This suddenly got so violent and I don’t know why . . .
It’s probably because I was just researching “Amazonian Women” on Wikipedia.
Anyway, I was bummed. Because I got to thinking, maybe if I were just a little shorter, I wouldn’t be writing this blog anymore.
Luckily I had a come-to-Jesus-moment.
Guess what verse I read?
The fricken fearfully and wonderfully made one.
(Psalm 139 in case you’re wondering)
I had to listen to Jesus tell me that he made me this way, and he doesn’t make mistakes. I had to hear him say that he knit me together in my mother’s womb and decided to make me the height of the average American male instead of the height of the average American female.
I had to hear him say that looks don’t matter. I had to hear him ask me, “Why do you care so much?” And then I had to think about why do I care so much? No matter what I look like, I have unlimited worth and value, because of who created me.
Huh . . .
There isn’t anything I can do about being tall, except for having my legs amputated, which sounds painful, so I’m going to maybe not do that.
Instead, I’m going attempt to embrace who I am, and who God created me to be.
And I’m wearing my booties to church.
What’s your thing? What physical thing do you get hung up on about yourself? I want to know! How do you remind yourself of your value and worth?