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I don’t know that I’ve ever been called “thin-skinned.” I can pretty much take the punches and roll with them. Sure, once in a while you’ll see me in a mess of tears but usually it’s after watching an episode of Parenthood rather than rebounding from an insult or feeling bad about being left out.
But thin-skinned can be a good thing too. Like when the nurse is on the hunt to find that elusive vein to poke a needle into or possessing the empathy for others in the same emotional predicament—like when those poor Bachelorettes are dismayed to discover the Bachelor has chosen someone else to be the love of their lives.
I guess I’m just thick-skinned. Maybe it’s because I come from strong stock? Okay, maybe it’s not strong stock (although I do have those characteristic German genes), but I do know it’s taller stock, that’s for sure. My mom and dad are both tall, my sister is tall and our cousins are tall.
I married a hunk-a-tall, dreamboat manly-man—admittedly he’s no Marlboro man out on the range, but he’s got it all going on in my book—and we made what we knew would be a tall daughter. There was no escaping it for her.