Approximately three weeks into our relationship my then new boyfriend, now husband segued our phone conversation into unsettling territory. He drew a long breath, paused, and took the plunge. ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’ My stomach immediately began to quake, my palms began to sweat. I did not have a scandalous past, my closet was relatively skeleton free, yet I feared whatever his question was, whatever my answer would be, it could potentially end my first real relationship with a real live wonderful man that I already adored. With blood pounding in my ears I tried to reply in a calm fashion ‘sure’.
‘How tall are you? I don’t care myself but my friends were asking.’
Now this question was more than a statistic, more than curiosity from his male friends that had eyed me across a distance. It was noteworthy because I had a few solid inches of height on Brent. Gasp, I know.
Trust me, I always counted on marrying someone taller than me. I stand at five foot nine, so I needed a man of above average height. Brent was five seven in robust shoes. But he came pre approved by trusted friends and I thought he was gorgeous. Brown curly hair, hazel eyes, strong jaw, and broad shoulders. He was kind, generous, funny, and smart. In fact, I pursued him! While I had instantly given up my height stigma, had Brent? Was he embarrassed at the thought of being seen with me?
On the other end of the phone he laughed and assured me that he didn’t care himself. With time and familiarity, and wedding rings, he continued to assure me. Actually, he encourages my height! As a massage therapist that worked with chiropractors he is constantly coaching me to have good posture and walk tall. His ongoing compliments struggle against a lifetime of curved shoulders and slumping trying to shrink. As my husband he encourages high heels, loving how I look in them (I don’t wear them too often, I am in a lifelong awkward stage and have the grace of a drunken baby giraffe).