Somewhere around the beginning of September, I read a letter in Dear Abby written by a woman in Hawaii who was concerned about her vertically challenged male friend. He was handsome, outgoing, fit, lights up the room when he walks in, wonderful person, friends everywhere... but not married. This bothered her, as she wondered if it was because he was 5' 7", rather than say... 6 feet or more.
She wondered if it mattered, if height was really that important to women.
You know I had to answer, don't you?
So, though I am not in the habit of writing to Dear Abby, though I enjoy reading her column... I wrote a letter, and promptly forgot about it. It's not surprising, really, considering everything that's been happening around here, and how busy things have been.
This morning, I got myself a bowl of cereal and sat down to my morning perusal of the internet, and read Dear Abby as is my habit. And... that first letter seemed oddly familiar. I read it a couple of times before it occurred to me.
"A Very, Very Happy Wife In Texas"... is me.
The Husbandly One is 5' 6" and I am 5' 3". And that makes him just right. No crick in the neck trying to look up at him. No cramping feet and calves from standing on tip-toe just for a kiss, though he can tuck my head under his chin when he holds me. No reaching up to hold his hand and feeling like a five year old walking with her dad. We're not exactly eye to eye, but pretty darn close! And that's just all superficial stuff, because really, even if he'd been taller than me, I still would have fallen head over heels in love with him. Or if he'd been shorter than me. Are you kidding? I struck gold when I met the Husbandly One; I knew it then, and I know it now!
We fit perfectly together, and that, my friends, is all that really matters.