I’ve got this friend who was obsessed with the Lord of the Rings movies. She read all the books, read The Silmarillion, Unfinished Tales, and all the other histories of Middle Earth. She regrettably got very involved in online forums discussing the particulars of dwarvish ancestry and hobbit genealogy. She watched the extended DVDs and the hours and hours of extras like it was her job. She played at learning the two Elven languages. She even sewed her own costume to attend the midnight showing of The Two Towers (and if you think she didn’t pull it out again–complete with beaded headdress–for Return of the King, you’d be wrong).
Most of all, my friend believed she was an Elf.
My friend is tall and felt like she’d finally found her people in the Elves. People whose height was a thing of beauty, not a thing of awkwardness.
And now, LOOK:
She has her chance! Peter Jackson is hiring Elven extras for The Hobbit! My friend quickly googled “182 cm in feet and inches” to see if she qualified.
Do you know how tall 182 cm is? 5 feet, 11 21/32 inches. My friend is 5 feet, 10 inches.
Her life is OVER. Peter Jackson just crushed her dreams. The life of the Eldar is leaving her.
* Ok, ok, it’s not a friend. It’s me! (Also, how many of you have that song in your heads now?)
P.S. Apparently somewhere else online where this article was posted, someone commented in response: “I just booked my 17 hour flight to New Zealand. Peter Jackson, look to my coming at first light on the fifth day. At dawn, look to the east.” That person is awesome.