After the services, a woman stopped us and wanted to know if we were visitors. My MIL did the honors, giving the nod to my SIL and her daughter, and me.
[Now it's important to note, at this point, that I am two years younger than Greg's sister and her daughter is in college.]
The woman grinned and announced - why, God only knows - that she had thought I was the mother of this enormous family. Me. Freshly 36. The matriarch of what, 7 kids between 5 and 38.
I stood stunned and a little hurt, waiting for her to say something to soften the blow. To say she was teasing. To pass me the crack pipe.
Instead, she said it three more times, adding something about my height.
There's no denying I married the tallest person in Greg's family; I am 5'9". I've been tempted to swing my MIL around, give her a airplane ride, but I keep my dark amazon warrior thoughts to myself. I've often felt awkward and clumsy around his petite family; I've been careful to protect my lanky girl from thoughtless comments about her size.
(It is not easy when Lexi could most likely share clothes with her Grandma at age 9.)
I saw Lexi standing there, in the foyer, overhearing this exchange. I made some crack about Yetis and excused myself, my eyes stinging.
My MIL tried to smooth things over, said something about how the Miltons have always been small people, and her friend probably just wasn't used to seeing such big Miltons.
Which is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.
Glorious women come in all shapes and sizes. Her friend was just rude.
I boo-hooed on Greg's shoulder that afternoon; my feelings were hurt. He had me laughing in no time. This woman had implied I was 80+ years old because I was tall. How could I take that seriously? He sweet talked me until I felt better again, until I remembered I am big in all the ways that matter: generous and vast and full.