My alarm goes off at 6:45 a.m. It is the first day of eighth grade. I wake up, stretch and feel a pang of nausea mixed with excitement. I have a new outfit picked out: a jean skirt with a white T-shirt that reads “Abercrombie Beach Babe ’02.” My favorite part of the outfit, however, is the shoes — a pair of brown clogs with a 3-inch heel. I get dressed, put on my new backpack and prepare for the walk to the bus stop.

 Before I even get on the bus, I am greeted by friends at least five inches shorter than me. They lean in for hugs, and I give them the awkward side hug. I figure they wouldn’t want to suffocate in my chest region. As I enter the school building, I immediately regret my choice of shoes. I walk through the hallway like a real-life Goliath. My friends, crushes and even teachers come barely up to my shoulder. Stupid shoes. I get home from a long day of school and, feeling like a freak of nature, chuck my shoes into the trash.

 Pretty much since the day I was born, I have been a “big girl.” The second I came out of my mother’s womb, the doctor exclaimed, “Wow! That is one tall baby!” I was 22 inches long. I still wonder why my height came as such a shock to the doctor. My whole family sitting in the waiting room that evening resembled a tribe of Jolly Green Giants.

 My dad is 6’5” and so are my uncles and my grandfather. I fit in well with the men in my family. As I grew into my toddler years, people thought I was mentally challenged because I was, basically, a 2-year-old in a 5-year-old’s body. People would kneel down to speak to me, expecting a 5 year-old’s response, but I would just hit them and run away. My mother was shunned by her church group because I used my size to beat up other children; I literally would take them by the hair and pull them up off the ground.

 When I reached my elementary school years, I began to develop much sooner than everybody else. In the third grade, I remember looking down and finding two small rounds placed perfectly on my chest. I remember my mom surprising me a few days after with a Wal-Mart sack packed with training bras and Clearasil. I remember her sitting me down and telling me, “Hannah, you are starting to bloom into a young woman. I am starting to see your mosquito bites (that’s what she used to call my breasts — humiliating!), and they need to be covered now.”

 By the time sixth grade came around, my feet had grown to a women’s size 10. It looked like God had played a mean joke and stuck two skis at the bottom of my legs. I tried everything in the book to make my feet look smaller. I wore extreme flare JNCO jeans; I even crammed my feet into tiny shoes. People still noticed. I remember people making comments to me such as, “Gee, Hannah, you have some huge feet.”

 Guys made up nicknames for me such as “Big Bird.” Still, all I wanted to do was make out with them. Unfortunately, guys were more apt to run from me than stand on their tip-toes and pucker up for a kiss.

 By the time I got to high school, I started to embrace my height. I began to indulge my love of shoes — and of short guys. Being tall became less of an issue. As I stayed the same height, other people grew. While my best friends in high school were watching their weight, I was eating for my height (meaning, to my friends, “like a guy”). I ended up dating the cutest boy in high school, who was an inch shorter than me and loved me in heels. I finally embraced my height, and in return people respected it.

 Now that I am 22, my height is my favorite attribute. I still have some problems with my posture, and once in awhile I feel like a giant at the bars, but that’s what seats are for. Besides the fact that the only gloves that will fit my hand are baseball mitts, and I occasionally get embarrassed when raising my hand to answer a question in class, I am OK with my height. Looking back to eighth grade, I wish I knew what I know now. I would have worn my brown clogs with pride.