My head is pounding from a horrible headache, so I’m doing the best thing I can do for it, which is to focus my eyes on a bright screen as I type little words on it, at the same time making sure they not misspelled. That’ll make me feel better in no time.
I suspect it’s a caffeine withdrawal headache, as this week I was drinking coffee for two or three days in a row, and then just stopped until now. I just brewed myself a four-cup pot and I’m mainlining the stuff as we speak. I blame The Gilmore Girls. But onto the main event: see that little tennis court in the first picture? It’s part of a commercial for something… I can’t remember what it was, but it was stashed together with the trailers on a DVD I rented a few weeks ago, and I’m not sure what that movie was either.
Ah, yes. The commercial was for a line of clothing designed by a tennis player, and I paid absolutely no attention to it until the computer-generated tennis player grabbed a much smaller computer generated colleague. That’s when my brain went whoa.
It’s like being at a boring party and your favorite author walks in. It’s like trying on a dress you’ve failed to fit into for the last few years, and it suddenly fits again. It’s like painfully watching a game and your favorite team is losing until the last five minutes, when they recover and win and move on to the semifinals for the first time in forty years. It’s like finding $20.00 in your pocket. It’s like the first date with someone that likes you back.
And all of it is happening in your pants.
Because of my superior brain, my pants are prominently located in my head.
Actually, everyone’s pants are in their brains, especially when we are talking about the giantess/shrunken man thing, considering it’s something utterly based on non existing scenarios. The latex people have clothing stores; the leather people can easily slip into their chaps; the robot people can get costumes; don’t get me started on the foot people. If you get off on it, there’s a catalog for it, but we the giantess/small man people are pretty much screwed by reality.
Still, our brains can get fired up by a proximity alert set off by anything and everything that we perceive as hints of the Things We Like. Granted, some of us get a little bit more specific and can only achieve satisfaction while staring at a video of Pamela Anderson swallowing little people. Weirdos. :)
But someone like me sees a commercial like that and doesn’t even realize the little person that woman is holding is not a small man. Someone like me doesn’t really care that the cruel woman picks the wee lass by the scruff of her neck, shakes her as though she’s a rag doll, and flings her off the hold of her fingers.
Someone like me is dreaming of the hundred million times she’s imagined herself as tall as a tennis court is long, and interrupting whatever sporting activity her little boyfriend thinks he’s going to get to do. There’s something much better for him to do now.
Someone like me is aware that only a small percentage of the population knows what she’s talking about.