Claustrophobia

Lemme out!

Maybe not THAT big.

Everywhere I go, I find myself not fitting in. You may think this is a statement of leftover teen angst. It isn't. I feel, literally, like I'm too big for my surroundings. Tables and chairs feel too small. Silverware is uncomfortable because it feels too light, too small. I feel crammed into vehicles - the proverbial sardine. My bed seems too short and, although I know it's untrue, I feel like my feet hang over the end.

You get the point.

Paradoxically, I keep losing weight and my clothes keep getting bigger and bigger. I swear, if my pants bunch up any more when I belt them people are gonna start thinking I'm a hobo.

What the heck is going on?

Back off, Bowzer.

The word that comes to mind is "distortion". Someone joked today that maybe I just need a new prescription for my glasses. In a way, feeling like this isn't unlike wearing a new pair of glasses. The ground comes way up closer, your peripheral vision is warped, and the world seems a little more 3-D for a short period of time while your brain is adjusting to the new, clarified images it's receiving.

Still, it's rather odd to be dealing with all the people around me who seem the size of my old Star Wars action figurines. I used to line them up and shoot them with my disc shooter and pretend they got obliterated by some disintegration ray.

There's something in the back of my mind that says this is how people who own football teams feel. They stand way up in the tops of the stadiums like all-powerful, untouchable Olympian gods, watching all the little moving figures down on the field and in the bleachers. To them, we're nothing more than toys to be played with - lined up and shot down or exalted at their whim. Cool.