On Saturday, I was the closing server at the restaurant, so when my co-worker wanted to leave, I agreed to maintain her last table as they had been camping out for the past four hours without any sign of immediate departure. They were harmless – two women, possibly on a date, occasionally holding hands, somewhat gruff in nature and both wearing sweatshirts advertising different football teams.

When I walked over to introduce myself and check in on them, they both stared at me, drunk and confused, until one says, “Well, now, aren’t you tall drink of water.”

I’m 5’4”. On a good day. And I was wearing flats.

The friend took exception to the comment.

“She’s not THAT TALL.”

“WELL SHE’S TALLER THAN YOU.”

They then proceeded to spend the next five minutes arguing whether or not I was qualified to be referred as a tall drink of water. I, of course, vote yes because um, AWESOME? and at five-freakin-four I am pretty sure that’s the first and last time I will hear that line in my entire life – not counting, obviously, all the times I will repeat it to my friends.

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