Lucky, Unlucky, Lucky, Unlucky

Sometimes, I consider how fortunate I am that my soul/consciousness occupies a physical shell that’s at the top of the food chain as opposed, for example, to being in the body of a cow or a species of plankton.
I was not lucky to be born female, though.
To take away at least some of the curse of gender, I was extremely lucky to be born in the United States. While it’s not as enlightened as the Scandinavian countries, the US is a heck of a lot better for women than just about anywhere in South America, Africa or Asia, and I was lucky to beat the law of large numbers in being deposited here instead of there.
Then I think about the petites.
My son is sick of hearing this, so I’ll make this brief: petite women have the life celebrated in American song and fable about the love, money, privilege and esteem that is supposedly strewn at female feet.
Let’s just say that unless those feet are a size seven or smaller, the love/money/privilege/esteem pickin’s are slim to none.
Which is an irony and a shame: having beaten tremendous odds to be born human and American, one loses out at the last possible role of destiny’s dice.
I guess it’s true, the odds are always stacked in the house’s favor.