I didnt want to date shorter men. But then I realized why I was wrong.

I had the bod of an Amazon but a small mind — at least when it came to romance.

As a broad-shouldered broad who’s just shy of 6 feet, I preferred to be alone rather than date a guy I outsized. Though I could head a department at work, I refused to be a head taller than a romantic partner. Though I lifted weights to be fit, I would’ve hated to out-brawn a beau. I didn’t need saving, yet I still wanted to look like I might.

This seemed to be the norm, in life and on screen: a lady being able to gaze up at her guy, or lean on his shoulder. To opt for anything else would’ve attracted attention, and I didn’t need to stand out more than I already did.

Adhering to the height rule didn’t prove foolproof: One lanky guy I dated was small-framed and finely boned, like a gazelle or a grunge guitarist. His friends joked I’d be the one to swoop him up and spin him around in the rom-com that was our courtship — an image that sent them into hysterics (and me gathering up the remaining shards of my femininity).

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When that fling ended, I reluctantly agreed to be set up with someone a whole inch shorter, but hefty. We shared barbs over barbecue, and even though he was physically different than the dudes I had been attracted to, I decided I’d see him again. But later he told our mutual friend, “She’s just too tall, man.” And that was that.

Then I began working at a comics magazine, where I met a kind, witty guy with whom I saw eye to eye — just not literally. Brian was 5-foot-6 (“and a half,” he’d add). We cut each other up with puns. We wept while watching “Billy Elliot.” We started spending nights together. But as we grew closer, I got nervous, so I put up a handy shield: our size discrepancy. It was easy, because our culture still wasn’t height-enlightened. Even supermodels with short rockers (Stewart, Jagger, Joel) were being trolled, and these women were wisps — what hope could there be for me? And Nicole Kidman, who’d just split from Tom Cruise, got big laughs when she cracked, “At least I can wear heels again.”

I wasn’t into wearing heels — just acting like one: “You really suck at blocking the wind,” I told Brian while we stood in line outside a theater on a blustery eve. “But you’re perfect at blocking it for me,” he replied. Maybe his lifelong love of super-beings let him go for someone super-tall, even when she was being super-shallow.

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My sensible mother approved of him, noting, “He’s big where it counts.”

“MOM!” I gasped.

She frowned. “I meant his heart.”

She was right — he had a big one. And his masculinity wasn’t threatened by my size either. Instead, I was the one short on confidence. I felt self-conscious about my stature, too cowardly to own my role as the more imposing force. I knew that if I didn’t want to lose this partner who was pretty ideal (except for his wardrobe of geeky tees), I had to embrace my inner — and outer — Amazon.

So I stopped slouching next to him. I learned to deflect others’ stares. And, like him, I came to appreciate the dynamic of our duo. Though I couldn’t be certain he’d let me fight a villain we’d encounter in a dark alley, I knew he was cool with me carrying heavy trash bags out to one.

Now we’re living together happily and on staff at DC Comics, working with the most famous Amazon of all, Wonder Woman — a character who definitely out-powers her man in the current film version. Life can be funny (or a comic).

When my single friends (feminists!) say they won’t date a more diminutive guy for fear of feeling “too large,” I wish there were even more physically imposing dames in pop culture I could point to (like Brienne on “Game of Thrones”) for validation.

But while role models are nice, nothing compares to the experience of loving someone who inspires — or forces — you to be a bigger person.

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