A thing I think about at least once a day but almost never mention, because I tire of knowingly raised eyebrows and that pout that says oh man, next she's going to start talking about aerosolized pig brains again, is how strangely long my arms look from the perspective of my eyes. (Honestly, half the reason I don't do drugs is because there's no real need to.) It confuses me, how terribly far away my hands are, how disproportionately spiderlike they look, as if someone stretched them and they never quite sprang back into shape. I wonder if this is why I knock things over all the time, talking with my hands, not because I'm so clumsy but because my arms are so long. My hands are practically on the moon.
I think about what it must have been like to be a dinosaur, to peer back at your heavy long tail and wonder that it could even be a part of you, something so distant. (Full disclosure: I wonder about what it must have been like to be a dinosaur maybe more often than I think about my arms.)
I was in Florida this weekend, memorializing and talking and getting bit by no-see-ems like it's my job, and a picture surfaced in which my crazy skeleton arms were just too obvious not to exclaim about. And it turns out that they run in the family, these gangly disproportionate appendages. Which won't make me marvel at the distance between me and the end of my extremities any less, but which makes me feel less like I'm imagining it.