Size.

355. In the restroom at work. Having just washed her hands, Miss Santa Claus wipes them onto a paper towel, crumbles then throws it into the bin across the room. The ball goes inside beautifully. I am inspired. I want to throw a paper ball basketball-style too. Watching me adjusting my aim, Miss Santa Claus can hardly contain herself. "This is too hard!" she exclaims. "So many things to say, and I cannot say anything." I pause, right hand frozen mid-air, still holding the paper ball. I look at Miss Santa Claus, wondering what planet she is on. "I cannot make any jokes about your size or age! Two more hours to go!" I throw the ball, smiling.

As we leave the restroom, I turn to Miss Santa Claus, telling her one of my most random sentences ever. "You know, Gaston is kind of short*..." Miss Santa Claus is about to explode. "You are so mean!" Then, collecting herself, "he is taller than me," she calmly points out. "Really? Oh well," I shrug. "And, he's pretty young..." Miss Santa Claus does all she possibly can to breathe normally. "To me he seems very mature..." 

Two hours later, comes a message. "And: the 24 hours are over!" Miss Santa Claus, for the first time in living memory, has just gone the whole day without making a joke about my size or my age. My heartfelt, public, congratulations. 

Come next April, we need to find her a new mini-friend.

*Gaston, if you ever actually get around to reading my blog, you are perfect, just the way you are. Pint-sized people are cute, anyway. So my therapist keeps telling me. 

356. American Diary 1959 - 1960, Hermit in Paris, by Italo Calvino.

On a visit to IBM (New York).

...It was an amazing sight, all those mathematicians and physicists in their little cells with their green blackboards. The workers were certainly highly qualified, and there was a very smooth rhythm of work; many women, all of them fat and ugly (beautiful women here, too, as in Italian cities, are now only to be found in certain social strata).

357. Office, an afternoon.
Anna: So, how did it go?
Me: Good, but he was a little pretentious.
A: You were wearing a fancy dress to dinner!
M: [laughs] but still! It's different, you know. I mean, I think he's successful, and he wants to show me that. Like, a little bit in a way, look what my life has become, compared to yours...
A: Well, you have been traveling a lot...
M: I know, but he was like, "You haven't been to Barcelona? Oh you should see Barcelona. No? You haven't been to Italy either?? You definitely should go and see Florence, and Milan..."
A: You should tell him that he should go and see Louvain-La-Neuve...

Steps.

16.  "So, do you think you'll join me for the running class on Tuesdays?" I am asked. 

"Maybe."

"The teacher - the coach? How do you call it? - he's yoong." 

"He's what?"

"Yoong. That would be a good argument for you to come." 

"It would?"

"Yes. And, he's almost handsome." 

As I try not to point out that a mother would actually be offended if her child is said to be almost normal, I wonder which was supposed to be the winning factor, yoong or almost handsome.

17. Hearing those familiar steps. You'd think that what with being in the same office forever and a day, I can recognize most of my colleagues's steps. In reality, headphones on or not, practically the only person I can usually tell without looking up is Miss Santa Claus, and even then, it's because of her keys, not of her steps. This morning reminded me that there's another person I can always tell without looking up, even if I haven't seen her for most of the last six months. Recognizing Kate's steps made me happy, partly because it means that my speech step recognition is not totally crap, mainly because it means that she's here.

18. We just come out of the Schuman Metro. Kate starts to make a turn, and before she completes the second step, I stop her. "Well, I don't know where this Rue Archimède thingy is, but it is not in that direction", I wave my arm in the general direction opposite to the Schuman Building. Spotting the needed street sign nearby, Kate admits that I am right. "I know", smugly, I say. "I actually live here."

"Mmmm", Kate smiles, and walks over Rue Archimède, in the elegant way that French girls, annoyingly, can always pull off. Navigating through the construction site that takes up most of the beginning of Rue Archimède, I tell Kate that this street looks like a nothing place. Kate smiles again, and as we walk on, she introduces me to crowded outdoor pubs and fancy restaurants, one after another.