Monday, July 5, 2010
There I was, renting a snorkeling mask, standing among adults and near adults, waiting my turn.
When it came time to "fit" me, the snorkeling dealer took just one quick look. "You have a really tiny head," she said. "I'm recommending baby size."
"A baby-sized snorkeling mask?" I repeated. "Really?"
"Tiny," she said, with her Caymanian accent. She handed me a mask from the lowest nail on her long wall. She asked me to try it on. It fit. "I have a baby-sized head," I told my husband, and later, to test the theory, I measured my mask against the mask of my delicate, rising-fifth-grader niece, Claire.
Mine measured a full inch shorter in width.
Everything was explained in that instant. Everything. Like why I have a hard time remembering names and why I always stunk at math and why I can know something intensely for a deeply intense time, only to lose that something in space. Small headed. C'est moi. Don't ask me any questions. Chances are the answers don't fit inside my head.