Cynthia Heimel’s entertaining collection of short articles If You Leave Me, Can I Come Too? has a funny piece on mispronouncing a word – something we can all probably relate to. In this case it’s a common word, the speaker discovers the ‘mistake’ relatively late in life, and, as we’ll see, it’s not really a mistake at all.
The piece is presented as a letter to an agony aunt, originally published, I think, in Heimel’s column for The Village Voice:
Dear Problem Lady:
All my life I’ve said “heighth.” I thought that’s what you said. Then today my friend said to me, “It’s ‘height,’ isn’t it? At least I think so.”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess it is, now that I think about it,” I said casually.
“I thought so,” she said.
I wanted to kill myself.
She knew damned well it was “height,” and she finally couldn’t stand it anymore.
I see the word clearly in my mind and it sure doesn’t have an h at the end of it. I’ve been obsessing for ten hours now. Forty-two years, I’ve said “heighth.” And I’m a horse trainer, can you guess how many times I’ve said “heighth” in my career? I’m so mortified I think I should go up to everyone I know and say, “Look, I know it’s really height, okay? I’m not stupid or anything.”
But then they’d think I was stupid and insane.
Should I just find a way to inject “height” into every conversation I have for the rest of my life?
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