5 - Little Drummer Boy

Can I get some lukewarm porridge, please...

I have two weaknesses: a strong jawline and a pair of deep, brown eyes.

Okay, fine, I also go weak in the knees for a good falsetto; lemon cupcakes; my first blog post, brown babies with curly afro puffs; good fathers; the strings crescendo in Iris by GooGoo Dolls; sincere compliments; a good pair of brows; a sleek LBD; Volcano candles; the sound of babies laughing; pictures of my godson; bedtime stories; boldness in a man and a slew of other things, but those aren’t quite relevant to this post. So let's focus on the first two: the jaw and the eyes.

I have made very poor life decisions at the whim of a brown-eyed man with a jaw like carved stone. Including swipe right on the Drummer when his profile said 5’10, knowing full well that meant he’s actually 5’9. But wait-he played the drums for a living. Come on, how could I pass that up? Plus he had a scripture in his profile, which made him even more attractive.

Now I’m not a fan of the label ‘Christian’, but I'm absolutely a believer. To paraphrase my muse, Anjelah Johnson (aka #BonQuiQui), I love me some Jesus, but I will cut a hoe. When it comes to dating, my date’s faith certainly matters to me but, it’s not what matters most. I’ve learned the hard way that loving Christ doesn’t make a man a good man. Still, I do perk up when a man is open about his relationship with the Savior.

Especially when he has honey-chestnut eyes and a jawline like a Greek statue. Cue the Drummer.

Our messaging is delicious. He’s witty and funny. And-hold the phone-he thinks I’m witty and funny, too! He shares his Instagram with me and I spend an embarrassing amount of time scrolling through his pictures ( so gorgeous) and his drumming videos (so gifted). In my stalkership, I realize two things:

1-I never liked wearing heels anyway. Red bottoms for what?

2-I’m perfectly fine with having shorter-than average children. We'll just pray for daughters.

Eventually we set a date at the same place the ghost from dates past stood me up, and I decide to wear the same dress, too. #KeepItSimple

Wednesday evening rolls around and I hurriedly get ready following my power yoga class. He texts me as I'm packing on a face: “I’m so excited to meet you!” Be still, oh my heart. I die, come back to life, make the last minute decision to wear Spanx, (because what marriage isn’t built on lies and sculpted thighs) and head toward the bar.

I walk through the double glass doors and immediately recognize him sitting at the bar. I am...conflicted. He’s adorable in his Chuck Taylors and khakis. Not as modelesque in real life, but definitely still super cute. But his feet swing beneath the stool. To and fro, they swing, fro and to. He stands to hug me and I realize that no, height is not just a number. I’m obsessed with this man and he smells like Christmas morning, but this Little Drummer Boy is so very close to the ground. And, as I mentioned, I am attracted to height on a physical and emotional level.

I go into alpha mode. Yes, I know, that’s my own fault but, that’s what I do when I’m uncomfortable. I sit next to him at the bar and order a pineapple Moscow Mule (my fave!). As we’re talking, I realize I can’t do this side-by-side conversation thing, especially since there’s a particularly loud #NBA playoff crowd of 8 yuppies yowling right next to us. I say, ”We need to move tables.”

“Uh, sure, I don’t mind,” he responds.

A waitress passes by. Her eyebrows are #fabulous. I tell her so and ask if we can move to one of the high-top tables. She says “No, I’m sorry those tables are reserved.”

Drummer shrugs and says to me, “Oh, that’s fine. We can sit here.”

“No, we can’t. I’ll be back.” I march to the hostess stand and ask whom I need to bully in order to get what I want. The hostess magically moves some things around and reseats us at a high-top tables in the corner.

My tiny date mentions he’s hungry, so I point out my favorite appetizers and we order sushi nachos to share. Looking back at it, I imagine he was thinking, She’s bigger than I thought she’d be, while I was simultaneously thinking, damn, this beautiful man is small.

Honestly, it wasn’t just his shortness. He was soft-spoken, quiet and demure. If you haven’t noticed...I’m none of those words. I’m loud even in my sleep. Legit, I wear earplugs at night to drown out my own noise. I am opinionated, verbose, overbearing at times and whatever else they say about me at work. The difference in our communication styles was painfully clear, despite the easy flow of conversation.

We talk about our childhoods, and he shares he grew up paralyzingly shy. Oh, really? I’m shocked. I mention I was a loudmouth as a girl. He tactfully comments, “You seem like the kind of person who says what she thinks a lot.” Right on the nose!

We continue our conversation about his travels as a musician, his experiences as a child of divorce, his progression in his faith. I talk about my relationships with my sisters, my insecurities at work, the struggle of dating while celibate. The talk is good, but I found myself actively trying to make myself smaller both verbally and physically. Hush your tone. Don't use so many facial expression. Cool it with the hand gestures, I instruct myself.

At one point he said something funny. My natural response: throw my head back in uproarious laughter. Instead, I almost choked on my inhale in, trying to stifle the volume, and placed my hand over my mouth. And then I giggled. I do not giggle, people. I guffaw, I cackle, I snort. I only giggle uncontrollably during work meetings. Who is this woman I’m trying to be with her fingers over her mouth?

The check comes and I reach for my purse-you know the drill. He’s already signing away, ignoring my movement. I pull out cash and extend my arm. He looks me in the eyes and says, “You’re not paying for this.”

“Well, thank you. But can I at least leave the tip?”

“Sure, but you’re not paying for your check.”

My heart went pa-rum-pum-pum-pum at his directness. Come on, woman, you’re only 5’4. You can handle it!, I lie to myself.

He goes to the bathroom, and I check my phone-it’s 11:55. We’d been talking for more than four hours. He returns, and I let him know it’s my bedtime. He not only walks me to my car, he also opens the driver side door for me. My gosh, isn’t he something? Oh, the swelling swoon inside of me. We hug, and I say ”Thank you. I appreciate you telling me about shyness.”  That’s literally the last thing he heard me say. Is there a class I can take on not being so awkward?

On my 3-minute drive home, I mourned the joy I’d felt five hours earlier. Why can’t a man be tall and love the Lord? Where dey do dat at? Can I go to there? Why can’t a man be devout with a big personality? He and I were too big and too small; our porridge was too hot and too cold, our beds too hard and too soft. We were #Goldilocks, but just 2 bears. Two attractive brown-eyed bears who were, sadly, not a match.

Test 1: Hella passed.

Test 2: Oh, I don’t know. Maybe?

Verdict: My heart is somewhere back at that bar, under the high top table where my dreams were crushed by a magnificent, minuscule man. He and I texted a little bit in the weeks following, but the Little Drummer Boy didn’t ask me out on a 2nd date. I actually tried to set him up with my cute midget friend a few weeks ago, but he’s already found someone. Let it be known (in theory, anyway) he was my favorite.

Click for Date 6 - Pufferfish