“Wow, your head is really big!” This, from my friend who has a little trouble with impulse control. The man trying on cowboy hats next to us coughed to cover his guffaw as she blurted out the obvious. I had been pawing through the Stetsons and Resistols trying desperately to find something that would not make me look like Mr. Potato Head.

I have come to terms with the fact that I will never be able to wear headgear with a snooty sounding French name, like cloche or beret. When I’m buying a ball cap, I have to crouch down between the racks of bras pretending that I’m looking for 36 double Ds, while fumbling with the adjustable strap. There’s no need to advertise that truck drivers have smaller heads than I do.

If the freakish body proportions stopped at my head, that would be one thing. I am also unfortunate enough to have thumbs the size of summer sausages, and kneecaps that come around a corner long before the rest of me does.

Perhaps, the thing that bothers me most is my short legs. I am currently in training for a 5k walk. So far, my major qualifications for a 5k consist of me once drawing a recognizable picture of a tennis shoe. I am not walking for some noble cause like birth defects or breast cancer. I am merely trying to reduce the cruelty to my desk chair.

At any rate, my training involves walking my dog, whose legs are nearly as long as mine. Unfortunately, he has four of them and I don’t. While chugging along at top speed yesterday, my dog stopped to pee on approximately 62 bushes and a neighbor’s fence. I didn’t even have to slow down.

So, why the diatribe on my personal deformities? Because I think that we should embrace our physical appearance. Despite my unfortunate features, I think I look pretty good. Just ask the crusty old geezer with a pin head down at the Dunkin Donuts. He can’t keep his eye off me. Wait, shouldn’t he have two of them?