Size Matters

Back in the States, I have a pretty average height. As a matter of fact, according to Wikipedia, I am exactly the average height for an American woman at 5' 4.5". In Mexico, however, i am some kind of giantess Amazon. While I'm not the tallest woman I've seen here, consider this: the average Mexica woman (again according to Wikipedia) stands 4' 11.5". Granted, that statistic is for Mexican women over the age of 50, but I'm still claiming it. I have stood in the metro next to adult women who only came up to my armpit. This can make for occasionally awkward situations, since I generally try to not shove my pits into anyone's face, even when clinging desperately to the don't-fall-over-and-crush-someone rail. As for the men? Well, I am apparently an average Mexican male.

I get a little self-conscious at times as I loom over my fellow commuters. This, however, is minor compared to Keating's general discomfort. He is over 6 feet tall and broad-shouldered. He looks like he could be called Gigantor. Poor Keating, though, is not limited to just feeling extraordinarily tall. Nope, for him it gets worse. Poor Keating is too tall to properly fit into the seats on public transportation. Have you ever been on a plane with someone who looks like they could be an NBA player? Have you seen that look of hopeless misery as they try to origami themselves into an airplane seat? Now make it a crowded bus. With chickens (not that I've actually seen any, but I like the image). And a blonde, blue-eyed man whose thighs are longer than the space allotted between rows and whose shoulders are wider than the molded seats. He looks like I should be carrying butter in my purse just in case I need to grease him up to pop him out of one of these miserably small seats. Whenever possible, Keating stands on public transportation.

Keating is too big for just about everything here in Mexico, except his pants. He has lost a fair amount of weight since we arrived, thanks to all of the walking and carrying huge water jugs up the four flights of stairs to our apartment. He's been wearing his shirts untucked to conceal that his pants actually hang from his belt like a curtain from a rod. The belts, thankfully, are in wonderful condition -- otherwise I'd live in fear of one snapping and Keating getting arrested for dropping his pants in public.

As soon as my first paycheck arrives, we're going to the store to buy new pants. I can't make the metro or bus seats any larger, but at least we can make sure that he's not sitting on them bare-assed.