STRANGER THAN FICTION: I'LL BE NEITHER A SUPERMODEL NOR A BASKETBALL PLAYER

I guess people just need a reason to justify their stupid questions.

This week, I've got to give a mass Idjit Award to all the people who've asked me how tall I am.

I'm 6 feet, 3 inches tall. I'll throw in my weight for good measure -- 270 pounds. There, you satisfied?

You average-sized women can't appreciate what it's like goingthrough life taking up this much space.

There are the little irritations, like trying to find a pair of pantyhose where the crotch doesn't end up hovering around my knees. Then there are the big irritations, like trying to wedge myself into the passenger seats of compact cars.

I've simply GOT to get more wealthy friends.

But beyond all of that is the irritation of answering the same question -- telling people how tall I am -- at LEAST once a day for the past 28 years of my life. Make that 26 years -- I'm assuming I couldn't talk for those first two, although everyone probably commented to my mother that she had a very large baby.

When The Other Half and I settled in Pensacola, nobody asked about my height for awhile. Bigger city, more to do, I figured. What do they care what my height is when there's so much breathtaking natural beauty all around them?

But there's been a recent rash of questionings lately.

Men and women take two different approaches. Men actually are a little more polite. They say, "Excuse me, ma'am, but how tall are you?" I tell them. Then they inevitably say, "Wow! Did you play college basketball?"

I'd like to clear something up. Being tall does NOT necessarily make one a good basketball player, just as being fat does not make one a good linebacker. I can't imagine that people approach Roger Ebert and ask if he played college football.

And the last time I play basketball, which was in junior high physical education, I actually scored a basket for the opposing team. I couldn't understand why my own guards were taking the charge.

Women just come up and ask straight out: "I've got to ask. How tall are you?" I tell them. Then they say, "Wow! You should be a model!" See, women associate height with modeling, plus they feel they have to justify their rude question.

Let's face it. It is RUDE to ask a stranger her dimensions. If she wants to volunteer them, fine. But I wouldn't walk up to Pamela Lee and ask her chest size. (I'd just look it up on the Internet.)

And how stupid is that modeling comment, anyway? Exactly what would I be modeling? Football uniforms? I can see the show now...

"And sporting our new jersey line is the lovely Heidi. Notice how the cut of the shoulder pads give the illusion that Heidi has an acceptable butt width."

Sometimes I take the questioning better than others. Most times, I smile, answer and walk away.

Then there was the time the obnoxious kid ran up to me in the video store. "DAMN! YOU'RE TALL!" he screamed.

"And you're a rude little turd. Now get out of my way," I replied.

He went crying off to his mother. "Mom! The big lady was mean to me!" But if their parents won't teach them manners, somebody else has to, right?

My best friend, Lynn, once told me that people ask about my height because being tall is a good thing in this country.

Oh yeah? Well, Miss Lynn, YOU go try to find me a pair of pantyhose with a decent fit.

~Heidi Nieland is a former Southeast Missourian staff writer who lives in Pensacola, Fla.