On our refrigerator there were a series of photographs.  There was one of me and Missy from grade school, one she insisted on keeping up; we were dressed in our white frocked button downs, adorned with the Catholic insignia of St. Mary’s on the starched white pocket.  Another was from that first fall semester after exams, you could see the tequila near empty on the table, its contents now displayed in our eyes. Beneath these pictures, there was a chart; it contained the recorded length and width of all Missy’s past and present men.  She labeled each with an initial.  For instance, Michael would be represented by the letter “M.”  She was what my friend Jason referred to as, a “size queen.”  I’d never really heard of the term before, but apparently that’s what she was, a size queen.  Perhaps there’s really no nice way to explain what a size queen is, because the very nature of a size queen isn’t very nice.  A size queen then, is a woman who discriminates against men, or rather against men who don’t quite measure up.

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