Michelle Larson is: wife, mom to 5, future adopted mom to a child from Ethiopia (waiting for referral), director of a non-profit called Grow.Learn.Give., sister of twenty-six (counting in-laws), daughter to four, teacher of lots of church kids, runner- skier- dancer- writer for herself, health teacher to anyone that will listen, chaeuffer and slave to five little piggies. ….all rolled up into 72 inches.
“I met the greatest guy at the ward service project today….too bad he’s short.” That’s how my love story began circa fall 1992. However, my roommate was the one who said it; she shares not only my Amazon-woman stature, but also my first name. We were the “Shellies,” one with one l-y and the other with two ll-ies. We went through many a date-less weekend together while our smaller-statured, less intimidating (so they say), more dateable roommates painted the Provo town red. Yes, we were tall, loud, opinionated, older (?), busy, and getting masters degrees. I can see why we could scare some folks.I owe my married life to that Shellie with one l-ie. Every love story is a gift, and every love story has an angel. She is ours. She not only befriended my future husband, but she also introduced us and cheered us on when things got rough. How could things get rough for a couple made in heaven? Well, you see, there are four and a half inches of femur bone length that became a real stumbling block in our love story. I like to blame all precedent love stories, not to mention every romantic movie known to mankind. It is just how it is; the boy is taller than the girl. He protects her and shields her and puts his arms around her shoulders as they stand for pictures. He bends down to kiss her and leads her around the dance floor in a flowing waltz. Tall, dark and handsome seems to be the dream of most, and sadly, it was mine.
The love story begins like every love story: flirting and sarcasm and dating each other’s friends. We admired each other so much that we would set each other up with best friends and even siblings. Soon, I noticed that every social engagement I had somehow involved him. The number of friends invited on our “group dates” soon dwindled down to the two of us. The two of us is where we were most comfortable. I suppose it was after I made him an Orange Julius one morning after a bike ride that we decided we could and maybe should be alone. The chemistry was unbearable and yes, we needed to maybe even date. Don’t think this “Orange-Julius” moment was love at first sight—this had been festering for years now.
After that fateful morning I decided that if this is what fate had to deal me then I was going to make my poor lover suffer. I became very hard-to-get, evasive, and downright mean. Insecurities, my insecurities drove this. Can you blame me? I had waited twenty-five years for this guy…and he’s short?!
This is where Shelly with one l-y stepped in to save the day. She was secretly having those “Don’t give up on her, you are meant to be” talks in the Tanner Building during their grueling number-cruncher accounting classes. She reminded him that this girl, yes, the tall one that treated him like dirt, hated numbers, slept too long, spent more than she made, was uncultured, spoke ungrammatically, and was chronically late was the one for him. By some miracle, it was these talks that kept him on my leash.
All the while the she-angel was telling me how wonderful this boy was. She read my Mia Maid list of “Traits of My Future Husband” and pointed out how every trait was covered, except for the shallow things, like tall, broad-shouldered, basketball player, dark skinned, etc. She spent extra time on the traits like loyal, smart, funny, likes vegetables, and extra, extra time on the recent addition of the trait ”loves me.” “He really loves you, Michelle, he really, really loves you.”
An inner-height love story is much the same as any love story. While dating, I grew to love and respect him and yearn for his every breath. I got those same butterflies when he entered the room that all lovers get. We talked and swooned non-stop for months. We used every excuse to be with each other: cleaning, eating, studying, driving, walking, exercising. We knew we couldn’t live apart for one more month, let alone the rest of forever.
We learned to kiss sitting down (or lying down, but don’t tell our kids that), we never danced without laughing, we could trade shoes and most articles of clothing, we took pictures sitting down or on a slope or in soft dirt/sand so I could squish down four inches. We took advantage of curbs to satisfy that need to wrap our arms around each other in the traditional romantic way. We surprised our closest friends and family with our engagement—most people thought we were just best friends. We were and still are.
Fifteen years of a loving and “easy” marriage are a testament to the fact that all good gifts are made in heaven, but sometimes the package is different. Why I came in a six-foot package and my husband a five-foot, eight-inch package, I’ll never know. But, I’ll never doubt the joy the gift of marriage has brought to my life or that the angel (Shellie with one l-y) was directly sent to deliver this gift to me.
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