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"  I didn&amp;#039;t know what love was until my eyes locked on a pair of three-inch Ann Marino Lido pumps on an overcast, blustery day in November 2011. I was on a mission. I wanted\u2014er\u2014needed a pair of dark heels I could don at work. They would complement my favorite sheer charcoal tights oh so very well. I can&amp;#039;t quite recall what caught my attention first: The suede fabric? The rounded toe? Maybe it was the decorative bow adorning the elastic strap at the instep. Yep. That&amp;#039;s it. These heels were quintessentially me: tall and mysterious, with a hint of spunk. And they needed to be mine. I began ransacking the cream-colored cardboard boxes at my local Designer Shoe Warehouse in search of my size, like Cinderella&amp;#039;s stepsisters prepping for the ball. I crammed my long, narrow foot into a shoe that was one size too small. Romantic? Absolutely not. We were off to a rocky start, but I was not about to let these shoes be the ones that got away. Been there. Done that. Fortunately, another DSW about 15 miles east had the exact same shoe in just my size. We were united less than an hour later. They fit like a pair of tummy-taming Spanx\u2014but didn&amp;#039;t cut off my circulation. You see, in winter I wear skirts during my nine-to-five job. Every. Single. Day. Some of my female colleagues look up to me for this. Actually, most do. The fact is I&amp;#039;m 5&amp;#039;10&amp;quot;; like most things in life, my lanky stature has been both a blessing and curse. Finding slacks with enough fabric to cover the extent of my lower half is no easy task: I&amp;#039;m always prepared for a flood. I&amp;#039;ve asked countless sales clerks if select items are shirts or dresses, more times than I&amp;#039;d like to admit. The response is often a quizzical head-tilt that reads slightly condescending\u2014but mostly sympathetic\u2014followed by, &amp;quot;Sweetheart, that&amp;#039;s a dress.&amp;quot; Sigh. Have I mentioned how much I despise shopping? Let&amp;#039;s just say I&amp;#039;m not exactly a girly-girl who reeks of refined sophistication and class. I&amp;#039;d choose beer over a cocktail any day of the week. The number of nail appointments I&amp;#039;ve had during my 25 years on Earth can be counted with a two-finger wave. Hair dye hasn&amp;#039;t touched my tresses in more than a decade. (I learned the hard way that ash-brown brunettes wearing blonde highlights look eerily similar to a Bengal tiger.) Oh, and running shorts? If I could wear them to work, I would. I used to be insecure about my height. I stick out like a sore thumb. I&amp;#039;ve been used as a human landmark. I pine for any, and I mean any, member of the opposite sex who hails from the elite &amp;quot;Six Foot Club.&amp;quot; See\u2014my standards aren&amp;#039;t low. Some people stare. Others ask if I know how tall I am. &amp;quot;Is this a trick question?&amp;quot; I wonder, in awe. I&amp;#039;ve been called both a &amp;quot;redwood&amp;quot; and a &amp;quot;leaf eater&amp;quot; by two perfect strangers, at the same bar, in the same night. These aren&amp;#039;t exactly sexy monikers, but my god they certainly are clever. Plus, I do fancy a hearty salad. In a vain attempt to wear my entire 70-inch frame as a badge of honor, retail therapy of the shoe variety was needed. Nothing cures a complex about your height quite like three-inch stilts. No? The hair of the dog mentality doesn&amp;#039;t just apply to alcohol, ladies. Now, these heels are an undeniable part of my identity. They&amp;#039;ve helped me walk into a myriad of interviews for work with confidence and poise. They&amp;#039;ve been on a painfully awkward first date. They make reaching items on the top shelf look effortless\u2014and paint me a hero to little people navigating the cereal aisle at the grocery store. The elastic strap permits running across busy streets as I dodge downtown traffic or frantically pace in parking garages after coming to the harsh realization that I have\u2014yet again\u2014misplaced my car. When I foolishly wore them to a four-hour work event that involved little-to-no sitting, they&amp;#039;ve made me want to cry. These shoes are not made for walking, but let&amp;#039;s just say I&amp;#039;m one to have my cake and eat it, too. The right heel has been repaired not once but twice during our one-and-a-half-year courtship. We&amp;#039;re solemates\u2014the three of us. It&amp;#039;s an atypical relationship, but together we tower, with an elegant fortitude and tenacity\u2014that is, until I meet a match of my own. I can only be the third wheel to this dynamic duo for so long. Meanwhile, I&amp;#039;ll rock &amp;#039;em both, beaming with pride. But if you&amp;#039;re reading this, and you&amp;#039;re a tall, single member of the male persuasion, drop me a line. I can&amp;#039;t promise I&amp;#039;ll ditch the heels, though. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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