Growing...and growing...

I am two inches taller. Seriously. Two inches taller. I had a physical the other day, the kind where the nurse travels to your home with black leather medical bag in hand, ready to weigh and measure and take your blood all within the comfort of your living room. My nurse, Vicky, was a chatty woman who thankfully didn't mind the very obtrusive nature of my four cats. She petted them and cooed at them while she quizzed me about my non-existent smoking and drinking habits. She regaled me with stories of her adventures at a local nursing home with her Newfoundland, Cheyenne, as she handed me a cup to urinate in.

Once those details were out of the way, she measured me. I stood against the wall, barefoot and straight-backed while she fiddled. We returned to the table and she said, rather nonchalantly, "You measured 5'4 1/2" but they ask us to round up on these forms, so I'm listing you at 5'5"."


WHOA.


"I'm 5'2"," I blurted out.


"No, you're not."


"No, wait," I stammered. "I'm 5'2 and a 1/2. I have always been 5'2 and a 1/2."


Vicky looked at me doubtfully. "I could measure again?"


"YES!" I leaped from my chair and assumed my position against the wall.


She measured again, more carefully this time, and I waited for her to admit her mistake.


"Well, you're still 5'4 and a 1/2."


I followed her back to the table, numb with shock. I should point out that she decided to take this particular opportunity to check my blood pressure -- gee, thanks, Vicky -- and somehow, someway, it was a very stable 110/68. Even though my heart was racing. Almost as fast as my mind.


You know how you have those physical markers you use to identify you? The things you know to be true? I have blond hair. Green eyes. Two piercings in each ear. I wear a size 6 1/2 shoe. A 34B bra. And I am 5'2 1/2" tall.


Or, rather, I was.


Some of those physical features can be modified. I can dye my hair (which I do). I can add another piercing (I did). I can wear a padded bra (ahem. Guilty of that sometimes...). Having babies made my feet grow slightly. If I wanted to, I could wear color contacts and change my eye color (I don't. I like my eyes). And I can wear heels to be taller (which I do. Often.).


But to have someone say you've grown two inches? When you're 40? For me, that would be like waking up and looking in the mirror and seeing blazing blue eyes staring back at me. Or a mop of red curls atop my head.


I stopped growing when I was 10. I was the tallest and biggest-breasted girl in my 5th grade class. And I stopped. Through all of my physicals over the years, through three pregnancies and the requisite exams those entailed, my height has remained the same. Always.


The last time I went in for a physical was three years ago. Guess what? I was 5'2 and 1/2.


So what happened? There were no growth hormone pills, no get-tall-quick schemes, no yoga, no chiropractics to attribute it to. Nothing.


Except this. The last couple of years have been transforming for me. Personally. Emotionally. Professionally, even. Through a series of self-discovery and external events, I have found my wings. I have grown.


Even, apparently, two inches on the outside.