My signature. It’s really spiky and darn near indecipherable, and takes a relatively long time, compared to other people’s loopy scrawls.

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Like so.

This gets comments from store clerks all the time, from the long-winded (”You sure don’t have to worry about someone faking that. You know, my identity got stolen last year…”) to the terse (”Ha.”). I usually try to say something explanatory in return (”I spent days perfecting that as a pre-teen,” or “I’ve written it like that for years, and now I couldn’t stop if I tried”), but really no-one cares. It’s just a blip in their day, and yet another example of my long-windedness: I can’t even sign my name without a soupçon of sturm und drang.

My Baby-Face: I have to admit, the further north of thirty I flit, the more I enjoy being told I look like a pre-teen. The other day, the woman at the sandwich shop quizzed me for what seemed like forever on my skin care regimen (I don’t know how the subject of my age came up, but I honestly think the twenty-something cashier had no idea what 32 should look like, and was therefore amazed that I was not made up entirely of dust and spittle). And for the record: the secret of my success? Do very little. Have good genes. Dress like a twelve year old.

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Also: spend time with puppies

Then there are the things that I feel are obvious, but never seem to get noticed. For example: my height. Granted, I’m not that tall, but at five-nine in my stocking feet, I am a bit taller than most women (and some men) of my acquaintance.

In elementary school, this was an essential part of my identity: with the exception of Shannon Campbell (who, despite my earnest prayers, continued to grow every year, keeping a steady inch ahead of me), I was The Tall Girl, my big head and bony shoulders standing out above my classmates in school photos. But now? No one ever seems to notice, reacting with genuine surprise when something needs to be fetched from the top shelf and, oop! How did I manage to reach that?

But it’s not just other people: last Friday night, my friend Nate and I were discussing how hard it is to see oneself sometimes, and how the full-spectrum rant you may be broadcasting from every pore is sometimes visible to everyone but yourself. Which makes me wonder: what am I missing?

As an illustrative anecdote: some years ago, I was at the doctor’s, and as part of my checkup he did the standard ‘hit the knee with a mallet and see how hard you kick’ routine. He did it twice, but my leg hardly moved.

“I guess I must be really relaxed, huh?” I observed.

“No, it means you’re abnormally tense.”

“Oh.”

It was news to me.