precious moments

I was walking to the metro this morning, minding my own business when a tiny, young, smug, uppity businessman pushed past me at a crosswalk.  And this tiny, rude, smug businessman turned back to look at me disapprovingly as if I had been the rude asshole.  But how could I really be mad?  He was 5 feet, 2 inches and 105 pounds of adorable.  A man so wee that I could have discreetly folded him in half and slipped him into my purse like a feminine napkin.

His little legs walked quickly ahead of me, tiny brown shoes with a peak of powder blue socks under pants that I couldn't have pulled past my calves if I tried.  I've got calves that I would call gently beefy, but most pants can accommodate them.  The tiny elves that must have sewed this guy's pants would have cried to see me destroy their months of handiwork.

He had a clever little coat, blonde hair and he carried an oversized umbrella.   You tiny, ceramic Precious Moments figurine of a man.  Why are you in such a hurry?  Come here, sit next to this bear on top of this gift-wrapped box that serves as a piggy bank.  I'm going to put you in my curio cabinet above my Charles Wysocki collector plate of two cats taking a nap in front of a fireplace.  That way you're safe, and we won't have to worry about you being a RUDE ASSHOLE to anyone ever again.