i wish he was a lil' bit taller.

The internet has been in an uproar since Wednesday when Kermit revealed his new bae, Denise. Hilarious memes littered Twitter as people dragged Kermit for moving on so quickly from his 40 year long relationship with the baddest bitch in Muppet Land, Miss Piggy. I laughed until my cheeks were sore, but something else kept popping up in my head as the pictures whizzed by in my feed: this is literally me and and my new bae.*deep sigh*

Seriously, this is as close to a picture of us that you will get. And I'm not sure how to feel about that. Let me tell you why:

Preferences are tricky things when you're a single Black woman with zero options, and have been for more years than you'd like to count. People begin to insinuate that you should step outside of the box of things you like, and give things you've never thought about, things that annoy you, and things that gross you out a try. My answer is usually NO.

When you're 34 and have been dating since little Tyrell shared his chocolate pudding with you in preschool, you kinda have a really good idea about the things that will and will NOT work for you, whether you have tried them or not. I know for sure that I don't want to date a man who can't read or write, doesn't open the car door, doesn't tip, is an athiest, is shy, has a violent temper, and isn't my kind of cultured.

I also don't want him to be short. Or skinny.

But then, a few months back, I met this guy at a meetup with a whole bunch of traveling Black folks. I wasn't a part of the group, and neither was he, but we'd been invited by friends who were, so while they socialized and gushed over planning a trip to Cuba, he and I launched into an all night conversation about Rachel Dolezal and Bill Cosby, gentrification, Brooklyn versus Harlem, and where we were thinking about watching the next playoff game. He was cool, and midway through the night, suggested we keep in touch. Neither of us whipped out our phones to exchange numbers, but the next day, I woke up thinking, "Damn, that was a good ass conversation." That's never happened before.


I found him on Facebook and less than five minutes after sending him a friend request, he was in my inbox, striking up another convo about the weekend, Melissa Harris Perry, and the rise of Hotep niggas on the internet. It was glorious really, the way his intelligence, street smarts, consciousness and sense of humor made him sorta kinda the male version of moi.

So we're inboxing and that leads to texting which leads to phone calls and I'm loving all this talking we're doing over the course of a few weeks, and then he says, "Let's meet up for drinks," and I say, "Of course, no problem" because alcohol is my friend and he seems to be, too. I arrive a teensy bit late and spot him at the bar of the restaurant that is the perfect spot for us: Black owned, cool crowd, live music, shea butter approved. When I approach him, he smiles, and asks if I want to join him at the bar or if I'd prefer a table. A table seems like a good choice, so he stands up from the bar stool he's sitting on and... he's shorter than me.

I take a deep breath and try not to let panic settle into my chest. We're just friends meeting for a drink anyway, right? It doesn't matter that I've craved our conversations for the last three weeks and was kinda looking forward to the possibility of us being a little more than friends. Because we aren't. We've never discussed it, or even insinuated that we were interested in each other. So, yeah... we're just friends.

As we walk to our table, I try to ignore the feeling that I'm out with my little brother. We sit and we order drinks and then we order food and we talk with a live funk band playing in the background, and we launch into a Brandy versus Jazmine Sullivan debate which I wanted no parts of from the get go. We crack jokes and laugh more than I have in a while. We run into people we know and find out we have mutual friends. This guy is really cool.

Cool enough for me to take my last sip of rum punch, glance at my watch and realize it's two hours past the time I'd planned to be home. When I reach for my phone to pull up my Uber app, he asks if I'm OK with him giving me a ride instead. I never turn down an opportunity to save money, so I accept the offer. As we're walking to his car, I am reminded again, that he is shorter than me. The dynamic changes and the cool guy who kept me thoroughly entertained and happy for the last four hours feels more like my nephew.

We hop in his car. He opens his Spotify app and selects the Eric Roberson station and looks over at me with a "Yeah, I'm a smooth muthafucka, ain't I?" smirk. I'd mentioned Roberson being my fav earlier in the evening, so yeah, he kinda is a smooth muthafucka right now. The drive is less than 10 minutes, but we still manage to run our mouths over the music about a myriad of topics. He is comfortable and open. I am too.

We pull in front of my house while we're talking about House of Cards and Power and he says, "We should watch those together. I mean... if you want?"

Netflix and chill, already? "I'd like that," I say. He then reaches over for a hug that feels like more than just friends. As I step out of the car and walk up the steps of my building, there are a million thoughts swirling in my head, "Is he watching me? I hope he isn't looking at my booty. Girl, be careful, don't trip up the stairs. Hold on to the rail. Did he try to kiss you on your cheek when he hugged you? Was that a first date?"

The final thought: "Why didn't you notice that he was shorter than you when you met?"

The answer: because we clicked. I noticed he was short when we met, but it never dawned on me that he wasn't taller than me. This is something new to me, especially since I hover somewhere between 5'3 and 5'4. The shortest I've ever dated fell somwhere around 5'9. And even then, I felt some sort of way when I wore heels. When I think about love interest, size weighs heavily into masculinity. Masculinity makes me feel safe. And feeling safe with a man is a high on my "Things I Require In Life" list. So, I'm not sure how I feel about his height. But should I even care at this point? We're just friends.

We talk off and on for a few weeks and things seem to be progressing from a friendship to a #baeship. We text regularly, he calls with jokes, and he sends me emails asking for advice about serious shit. He values my opinion. We spend one evening under the stars with a box of chicken and two pimp cups filled with rum and pineapple juice, talking about church and family and why R. Kelly is problematic and Lalah Hathaway is the truth. I playfully call him Deacon because he refuses to allow me to walk on "the outside," and once while walking downhill, when I confessed to being clumsy, he linked my elbow with his like we were courting in 1945 Georgia. It was cute and the name stuck. He now calls me Deaconess.

When we sit and talk, I forget that he is short. But when we're walking around or standing side by side, his size is like a bullhorn. I can't ignore it. I'm not sure if he is shorter than me by the numbers, but I know I cannot wear kitten heels around him without feeling like I'm his elementary school teacher.

He is also smaller than me in size, which is even worse. I have always been into thick and chubby men, men with broad shoulders and wide backs. He doesn't fit that description at all. Dating a man who weighs less than me? I shudder at the thought.

But he makes me laugh. I feel comfortable with him. And he listens. We had an issue between us, and after talking to him about it, he fixed it immediately. Not only that, but he thanked me for communicating with him. "I like that about you. You don't get an attitude, and you don't send me on a treasure hunt to figure out what the issue is. You're upfront. That's the only way this will work."

So he has all of these good qualities about him, but his size and stature make me feel like I'm Big Mama and he's Jamal, and we're in a movie named "Soul Food". There are people in my life who feel that this shouldn't be a big deal at all. "He's a good guy," they say. "Size shouldn't matter," they say. "Things could be worse," they say. And I think they have a point. But I can't help what I am attracted to. And I can't help what I'm not attracted to, either. And being attracted and not attracted to the same person is an odd position to be in.

"So..." he says with hesitation one evening over the phone. "If you look at me as like, just your TV buddy or something, let me know. I don't wanna be out here assuming we have something more." I chuckle a little to distract from the awkwardness in the air. "TV buddy?  You're so silly. But, of course I'll let you know," I say. "No worries."

I guess now I have some thinking to do.