Give It the Boot

When you can't forgive and forget, remember what the reminders really mean.

By Josh Summitt

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Before I was married, I loved wearing cowboy boots. I was reared in a western state, and as I tugged on my boots each morning, I was reminded of rodeos, riding horses, and good ol' country music.

Not that I was a real cowboy. I was a city kid, but a western city kid. I loved attending the annual rodeo in our area, and I wore boots all through high school.

When I went to college in the Midwest, my western roots were part of my identity. While going to rodeos as a spectator might not qualify me for the Cowboy Hall of Fame, at a school where no one else could tell steer wrestling from calf roping, it was good enough. My boots fit the overall image—as a guy who knew trail rides, backcountry jeeping, and the difference between country and western music.

It wasn't until I got married that I began to hate those boots.

It started shortly after our honeymoon when Trish, my wife, lamented as we were going to a dress-up occasion that she couldn't wear her favorite shoes anymore.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because I like to wear shoes with a heel," she said. "If

I wear any heel at all, then I'm taller than you are."

An utterly average 5'9", I'd never been aware of a height deficiency before. Trish is also 5'9"—a fact I'd never considered to be anything but another sign that we were meant for each other—a matched set! But she didn't see it that way.

I tried to be gallant. "It's okay with me if you wear your favorite shoes—I've always looked up to you anyway." Nice try, but it didn't work.

"You don't understand," she said. "It's not okay with me. I don't want to be seen with a shorter man. All the other men in my life have been tall enough that I could wear my favorite shoes, and they were still taller than me."

That hissing sound was my ego deflating.

Every time I saw my boots, I winced. Every day I was reminded that in my wife's eyes, I didn't measure up.

I knew Trish's dad and uncles were all over 6 feet tall. Worse, Trish's ex-fiancé;, who'd broken up with her shortly before we met, was also a 6-footer. Suddenly 5'9" seemed insufficient.

Throughout the first year of our marriage, I was obligated to adjust to the reality that I was shorter than desirable. As Trish continued to work through her feelings about my height, I began to wonder if height was really the issue. Or was this a way of working through unresolved feelings of attraction for her ex-fiancé;?

At times Trish would say, "Can I share a frustration with you?"

Like I had a choice.

But I'd brace myself and say, "Sure, tell me what's on your mind."

Once she said: "I wish you were taller. I'd love to go walking with you and have your arm resting on my shoulder."

"Yes, that would be nice." I didn't know what else to say. I knew from experience that when you're the same height, you can walk with an arm around your wife's shoulders, but you can't rest it on her shoulders. I suspected what Trish was referring to were her walks with Mr. Ex-fiancé;.

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Originally published in: Marriage Partnership, 2005, Spring, Page 41

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