I am a member of an elite group of individuals who favor brains over beauty and intelligence over… well, something I can’t think of right now (because its 9am on a Sunday, or I just have the dumb today). I digress.

I confess: I have a big forehead. There’s nothing I can do about it; its just there, gleaming in the moonlight or reflecting the harsh rays of the sun into your silly eyes under your normal-sized foreheads. It seems to say, “hey, watch out, there’s a super brain behind this large billboard of skin and freckles!” Or, I  just like to think to think that.

I’ve done some research on foreheads (30 seconds on Google counts, right?) and there are different classifications for the size of one’s head all wrapped up in the Cephalic Index. Mostly, though, they seem to indicate other medical issues with largely disproportionate head sizes (thus, making me feel bad for even writing about this, but whatever) or they are used for measuring the type of head your dog may own.

Woof.

My forehead has been the object of ridicule for years. Obviously, being a higher life form such as myself brings out the fear in others and they must retaliate by resorting to playground politics by pointing and laughing at a physical feature. Kind of like when I was laughing at that boy’s boogery nose and he sneezed on me. Well, no, I made that up, but it could have happened.

For the record, on the playground, I was the leader of the cootie patrol and I had my posse of girls (go figure) running behind me, battling the cootie-infected boys like that crazy red-headed PJ boy who I had a huge crush on, and later, when we were teenagers and I had moved to a new school, I called him several times and hung up when he answered since I was that foreheaded and still afraid of cooties.

I totally win the “Run-on Sentence Award” for that little gem. I also used to talk to bumblebees. Suck on that.

This forehead thing, especially since I took up residence online, has been taken to a new level. You know, you post a photo of yourself and its generally a head shot of some sort, so when you have the supreme-intelligence indicator of large foreheadedness, you get called on it a lot (because they’re JEALOUS! HAH!). Now that I’m a mom (I’m still wondering just how that happened, because I’m not sure if I should be trusted with the minds of our youth anymore), the foreheads (and admiration of) have transferred to my children… well, at least to the Twitches. We can’t hide our foreheads. Bangs are fine but far too much maintenance for our lives, so we proudly walk around with our foreheads prominently displayed.

Once upon a time, there was a woman who cornered us in Target and asked the normal questions about the Twitches being twins (because, really, I just lucked out with stealing another toddler who looked identical to the other toddler I coincidentally had in a double stroller, and managed to dress them in the same clothing so I could go get tampons) and then said,

“They have fabulous foreheads!”

Twins. Identical twins. Identical twin girls. Identical twin girls dressed in the same clothing… and then… foreheads, because that makes sense. I had to flee for our lives, because that conversation was not going to get any better at that (or any other) point.

Woof.

Evidently, a large forehead (about a century ago) was a sign of cleverness, or so Google has told me. They say there’s no medical proof to back that up, but I’m pretty sure that its true. Who else but a large-foreheaded person would even think to babble endlessly, in a clever manner, about foreheads? I’m pretty sure that’s proof, and I know that Durrah (and her five-head! NEENER NEENER *point and laugh*) will back me up, because that’s just how we roll.

To those of you who discriminate against people based on the size of our foreheads, I am here to tell you to suck it. Christina Ricci and Tyra Banks rock their foreheads, and they also have super-human powers that will not only read your thoughts, but also cause you to drive into pot holes and shrink your panties. A forehead uprising is coming, and all that you haters will have left is your own salty tears, a little blindness from the forehead reflections of the angry mob of “Forehead Proud” (my new activist cause) and some genital chafing.

So there.