When I began frequenting the weekly karaoke night at Neighbor's Pub, I met a gregarious, smooth-talking airline pilot from Queens. In shoes, Shane stands 5'7". His height instantly relegated Shane, along with many other men I'd met in my lifetime, into the undatable category. One night during a fabulous dance tune, I grooved my way over to him. "Wow, you're tall," he commented. My visceral reaction was to push him, showing my offense. Note to self: Dainty girls don't shove men across bars.
After five months, Shane and I had our first real conversation. He was intelligent, witty, and damned attractive. Something came over me. When he asked me out, I accepted. Our first date was one to write home about. Good conversation, lots of laughter, and chemistry so thick I could hardly breathe. On date three, I asked if our height difference bothered him. His response couldn't have been more romantic, "I think you're hot!" Through his man-speak, Shane let me know it wasn't about stature, it was about confidence. This man was so secure in himself, that our height difference didn't matter.
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His confidence began to subtly rub off on me. I didn't realize it until one day I found myself buying a pair of heels. Apparently I didn't need therapy to deal with my issues; I just needed one really good date. Three years later, Shane and I are still together, and my closet is lined with four-inch heels. At first glance, I'm sure Shane and I appear to be an odd couple, but he has given me an invaluable gift. In my fairy tale, my hero didn't rescue me from a dragon; he saved me from something far worse: a life without fabulous shoes.