I May Be Big But I Didn't Cause That Solar Eclipse

Introduction: I May Be Big, But I Didn’t Cause That Solar Eclipse

I have often admitted that I am big for my age. I'm tall and I am wide. With my gray hair and beard, along with that whole 'bowl full of jelly' thing I have working for me, small children often mistake me for Santa Claus.

I tell them I am his younger, better looking brother, Irving Claus.

A few years ago, after a total solar eclipse, a friend, or so-called friend, asked if I had stepped in front of the sun. Let's just say, we really don’t want to discuss my full moon, and how well it might blot out the sun.

My size has always been a point of conversation. I hit six feet when I was twelve years old, and added another four inches by the time I was sixteen. My older brother stopped at five-foot-nine, slightly taller than my father. My mother claimed to be five-foot two. The only way she ever approached that height was if she stood on top of the dog. It all served to make my height that much more noticeable.

Just what every slightly awkward, pubescent teenager wants: something to make him more noticeable.

In high school I briefly dated a girl who was taller than me. Other kids called her Amazon, but if they were smart, not to her face or within her earshot. That was before I met and fell in love with Diane, who like my mother, might come close to the height she claims to be if she stood on the dog.

And we have a Labrador retriever.

When I stand by Diane, it just makes it that much easier for people to realize that I am big for my age. My sons even stopped growing an inch or two before they reached my height, but they can thank their mother and her vertically deficient genes for that.

I can’t shop in normal menswear stores or departments. Even the ones that do stock a few things for people taller than the average munchkin, seem to have some odd ideas about clothes sizes for the bigger set. One store that I visited had pants that matched my waist size and pants that matched my inseam. They didn’t stock pants that matched both my waist size and my inseam. I could be short and fat or tall and thin, not big for my age in both dimensions.

I've written before about my thoughts on the person who designed hospital gowns, most of which are shorter than my shirts. I'm thinking about having a made-to-measure hospital gown custom made for me in some Far East clothing sweatshop. Anyone who has ever shared a waiting room with me probably wishes I already did. Seeing me in a hospital gown is probably something that ends up being discussed in a future therapy session.

The thing is, there are a lot of people bigger than I am. In Louisville, Kentucky I once shared an elevator with a woman who single-handedly exceeded the device's weight limit. I felt downright svelte standing beside her. I was in a restaurant in Washington, where I saw a woman who could not squeeze her entire girth onto a booth seat designed for three people. Her food intake helped me suppress my appetite, and proved to everyone in the place that her size had nothing to do with the oft-cited excuse of 'it’s a glandular condition.'

Her grease intake could have lubricated a fleet of Mack trucks.

When I visit one of those stores that sell very large clothing, I am happy that I take the smaller sizes. On one visit, I accidentally picked up a pair of men's 8XL bikini-brief underwear, when I was looking for boxer shorts. If you sewed up all the openings and filled it with helium, you would have a giant balloon float for a gay pride parade.

So yes, I may be big, but I didn’t cause that solar eclipse.