Maria the Midget: Part 1: The Ice Cream

“How old are you?” one person would ask.

“I’m twenty-one.”

“You look like you’re twelve.”

I know I look like I belong in middle school, but I’m of legal age now. Growing up, I was always considered younger than I really am, which isn’t a bad thing depending on how old they think I am.

During my school days, I would be picked on by my height. Not a lot thankfully. Kids would call me “Maria the Midget” or Maria the Mini”. That hurt me for many years. But now that I’m older, I grew from that pain.

But other than the bullying, I either received compliments or the “You look like you’re twelve” comments in which I reply with either “I get that a lot” or just a cold shoulder. I get that they mean well, but it gets annoying every time.

I remember one time, when I was seventeen, I was going to McDonald’s with my best friend and boyfriend and one lady bought an ice cream for whatever reason, but didn’t want it. She looked to me and gushed. “Oh, look! There’s a little girl. Hi, you want some ice cream?”

I looked around to see who she was talking to until I realized she was talking to me.

I flatly said, “No” and walked to my table.

“What was going on over there?” my best friend, Lydia asked, grabbing a nugget from her tray.

When I told her what happened, her eyes widened. “You should’ve said ‘yes’!” she exclaimed.

“Why?” I scrunched up my nose.

“Hello!” Lydia threw her arms up. “Free ice cream!”

“But what if she already licked it?”

“Who cares?” Lydia’s voice heightened. “It’s free.”

“Lydia, you’re gross,” my boyfriend, Eric said. “Just gross.”

“I’m just kidding.” Lydia turned to smile at me. “Seriously though, it’s good you didn’t take that ice cream. That lady coulda spit in it or sneezed on it.”

I shrugged. “Yeah. Gross.” I bit into my fry.

But then I started to wonder, What if I’m missing this golden opportunity? What if I never get a free ice cream like that again?

Without saying a word, I got up from my seat and walked beside the lady who was talking with a family at a table on the other side of the restaurant. I heard that the mother from the table told her that her daughter was lactose intolerant.

“Ma’am,” I said in my most childlike voice, my hands intertwined.

The lady turned to me with a small smile.

“I think I’ll take that ice cream.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded slowly.

“Oh, okay. Here you go, sweetie!”

“Thank you!” I tried to make it as babyish as possible.

Licking my new free ice cream, I rushed back to our table.

“Maria, are you serious?” Lydia laughed. “You seriously took the ice cream?”

“Yep. And I don’t regret it one bit.”

I should do this more often.