Do You Ever Feel Very Small?

I often find myself sprawled out across my twin sized mistress, extremities extending as far out as they can go, yet keeping the entirety of myself off the floor. It's moments like these where I feel small. I feel small in the shower, where I have to stand on my tip toes against the slippery bathtub floor to adjust the shower to spray on my head. I feel small when I sit in the grass, sun on my back, with a ladybird tickling my kneecaps, when I can tap my knees and feel the bones. I feel small when curled up with a fever, waiting for my mother to bring me a sliced apple, or when I blow the air from my lungs across a small wooden flute bought in China Town.
On the contrary, I feel large when I am in New York City or Boston, taking up copious amounts of space on the crowded sidewalks, my boney elbows poking into the eyes of little kids, my feet trampling subway grates and old candy wrappers. In the lobby of a high ceilinged, ornately decorated hotel, I feel like Alice wherein my blond head will soon meet the golden chandeliers.
I feel small and largely significant when I am alone, yet enormous and useless in crowds and massive architecture, though I am merely an average sized person.