I have a lousy sense of scale: in clothing stores the garments I bring into the changing room are either falling off me or screaming at the seams halfway up my legs; I frequently have to change pots mid-cooking because I'd overestimated capacity; pieces of furniture prove too large for the spaces I was certain they'd tuck right into.
Last night I went to the local Christmas-tree lot in 8-degree weather and surveyed the array of frozen evergreens. I saw a "small" tree and made my purchase. I had an inkling, as I carried it the few blocks to my home, that it may have been larger than it looked; for one, it was much bigger than me, and seemed to grow, Through-The-Lookingglass-like, as I walked gingerly along the icy sidewalk. Usually I get a tree about four-feet tall and place it on a table; maneuvering this beast up the front stairs was straight out of Fawlty Towers. I finally got it in, leaned it against the futon, and took stock.
It was easily seven feet tall.
No table. And I needed a stool to put on the lights and decorations.
But it is lovely, and with the snow whipping by outside, it makes the inside that much more cozy.
Next, egg nog. I have a feeling I'll end up with three gallons.