On Why I Am a Baby Giraffe

But first: I have only officially had this blog for a day, but I have already:

  • Updated the header (and love it!)
  • Updated the fonts (because I HATE Times New Roman and all of the other horrible squarey fonts.  Yes, squarey is a word).  However, given that you have to see the fonts as well, please tell me if you absolutely hate the fonts and it would deter you from continuing to read, because the last thing I want is to drive away good readers.  (If you suck as a reader, I don’t care what you think.)
  • Posted thrice!  (The “Bear With Me” post counts, right?)
  • Updated my About page (but only because my site stats say that people were going there and I felt wrong having there be nothing there)
  • Received two – count ’em – two spammy twitter followers.  One said “I luv ur blog.”  And then heart bubbles start popping over my head before I deleted them.  I feel both narcissistic and filled with power.  Next step?  Co-starring with Gerard Butler in the next steamy romantic action thriller.  I already see my name illuminated in lights.

So.  Let’s discuss me, right?  Because honestly. (See?  The stardom is already going to my head.)

I don’t know if I used to be clumsy in my early childhood.  If pictures are proof, I was a straight up pimp.

Be honest, y'all. You're jealous of the ride.

However, I grew up one summer.  To most pubescent gals, “growing up one summer” means growing two inches and suddenly requiring a training bra.  To our beloved Taylor, though, it meant I grew like, 10 inches.  In a three month period, I went from like 4’8 to 6’2.*  My clothing sizes went up exponentially, but more importantly, my shoe size went up.  By the time I started school in August, I was wearing a size 10 shoe.

Size. Ten.

Needless to say, that was not a fun summer.  Between shopping for shoes/clothes constantly, I was in a lot of pain.  I inherited stretch marks on my hips that I still proudly hide own.  My knees and hipbones would start popping in and out every time I’d walk or bend down to pick anything up (and yes, that still happens).  My ankles would just start randomly rolling and I would just fall down randomly.

In short, I looked like this:

I would love to tell you that a) this is an exaggeration or b) that this faded with time.

Neither are true.

My mom, my friends, and a few daring boyfriends have called me baby giraffe throughout my post-pubescent life.  I never got upset about it, because honestly, I watch that video and just think it’s the cutest thing ever.  (How could you not? Are you heartless?)  Plus, there was nothing I could really do about it.  “Walking slower” doesn’t really help, and “paying attention to how I’m walking” doesn’t help, so it was just one of those things I accepted.  I’m going to fall down.  I make every attempt to avoid wearing heels.  I try to wear flat shoes when I know I’m going to be getting drunk. Don’t even get me near ice, unless you have a videocamera nearby and intent to blackmail me someday.

But the title became especially honorific when, after me going kersplat on pavement in front of my (soon-to-be-) husband, he (with no knowledge of the oodles of people who called me that) came over, pinched my cheek, and said, “Awww…you’re such a cute little baby giraffe.”

It was done.  I officially loved being a camelopardalis infantus.

As if that wasn’t enough, apparently I have some other traits in common, like a freakishly long neck, long spindly legs, and a propensity for kicking the shit out of people who try to fuck with my loved ones.  Oh, and I love to neck.  (Mrow!)

This continued for awhile, with me occasionally constantly falling down or tripping over a non-existent tree branch or the pavement or a loose piece of carpet (or, more likely, just my own freakishly-long toes).  Every time, it only confirmed the thesis that I was indeed a baby giraffe trapped in a human’s body.

And then DirecTV happened.

Since then, I have demanded that my future-inventor husband invent me a machine that will give me a pygmy giraffe.  Because that’s my familiar, people.  I even own the shirt.

I think no further photo proof is required.

And, when I asked my friends what I should name my blog, here were the first two responses:

I rest my case.

Updated: And speaking of kindred spirits?  Confessions of a Water-Spiller.  This could have been written by me.  (If by “me”, I were to mean a me that’s funnier than me.)  Go and love Laura as much as I do.

*Not true.  I’m only 5’8.

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3 comments on “On Why I Am a Baby Giraffe

  1. Laura says:

    We should form the League of Uncoordinated Bloggers. We just need to find a meeting venue that has no hard surfaces and that serves all its drinks in sippy cups. And thanks for the compliment, but the comment you left on that water-spiller post is funnier than the post itself.

  2. […] have made it clear on my own blog that I am a total baby giraffe. I’ve come to terms with it, and thankfully, my husband makes all attempts to wear protective […]

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