So I kind of left you hanging a bit with regard to that fine ass dude I met.  You may be wondering what became of that whole thing.  Well I’ll tell you.

My whole point in leaving the VIP section that night was to go to the restroom when I was approached by the finest man I’ve ever seen in real life.  We’ll call hime Baby Drake.  I was literally taken aback by his presence.  He was so tall (not something I typically care about) and personable, and confident, without being cocky.  To be fair, I had participated in some heavy shot taking and over indulged in quite a few flutes of champagne prior to this encounter, but that man was fine.  Anyway, after we exchanged numbers, I never made it to the bathroom because my friends were famished and ready to go.

After making a mad dash on foot through traffic in Times Square to use the bathroom at a hotel, I had some tasty ass Thai food from one of my favorite places here called Qi, and then I made the homage back to Brooklyn.  Pro tip: if you are ever in the city of New York, and need to use the restroom, go to a hotel.  No one is ever going to stop you as there are lots of people in hotels, and there’s never anyone in the lobby restroom because most people have a room.  Back to the story.  As I was wrapping my hair after a long day of partying, I got a text from Baby Drake saying he hoped that I made it home safely and to give him a call the next day.

We chatted via text for the next two weeks.  Through these chats he gained my sincere interest in a few ways.  I will list them here:

1. He asked for my Instagram name instead of asking me to send him a pic.
2. His Instagram pics were captioned with some of my favorite Drake lyrics.  The kind that only a real fan would know, and if you can’t tell by now, I freaking love Drake.
3. He asked if he could come to church with me.
4. He wasn’t able to make our church date but let me know in advance with sincere apologies.
5. I got a call around 9:00 PM a few days later (yes an actual phone call) asking if he could come over.  “I don’t need to come in or anything, I just want to see you because we haven’t had a chance to hang out since we met,” he said.

I do not allow anyone into my house.  Not because I’m a prude but because my place is not cute and visitor friendly.  I would liken it to Holly Golightly’s apartment in Breakfast at Tiffany’s but that would be too generous of a comparison.  There’s random furniture and nowhere to really store my clothes so there wasn’t a chance in hell that Baby Drake would see the inside of my house on this day or any day in the foreseeable future.

He asked for my address and I sent it via text.  He called and said, “Wow you’re like an hour and a half away.”  My heart instantly sank before he followed up with, “Nah I’m joking you’re literally like five minutes away see you soon.”  I took the flexi rods out of my weave, and groomed my brows quicker than anyone ever has.

I’m a bit of a creep so I actually have chill outfits that I find flattering.  Not lingerie.  Let me explain.  I think that I look really good in all white but I don’t like to look like I’m trying too hard when chilling.  So I threw on some white sweat pants, and my new favorite white t-shirt from Banana Republic.  (I have an obscene amount of white shirts).  So, I emerged from my driveway looking leisurely chic as far as I’m concerned, and there he was.  I shit you not, the man somehow got better looking from the time we first met.  He was wearing my version of male lingerie: Nike Tach gear and dope sneakers…plus a fresh haircut.  Let’s also take a moment to reflect and thirst over his body.  He was built like a running back.  You know, slim but just muscular enough in the right places (arms, chest, and back).  Quick, someone come change this chair cushion.  I swooned in my head, but kept my cool.

We stood outside of my house and talked for like two hours.  It reminded me of high school or college, when you’d sit in someone’s car talking about any and everything, and time doesn’t even exist.  You’re just thriving off of each other’s vibes.  A warm breeze came through every now and again to give my weave that Beyoncé effect.  We talked about his mom’s passing, his absentee father and how that made him want to be a better father to his son, where he went to college, and why he dropped out, his many, many tattoos (I love tattoos), and everything that came to mind.  He didn’t compliment me too much, because I said how I hate that.  He was genuinely curious about me and my life, where I grew up, and what brought me here.  His touches were light and flirtatious, a little inviting even, but never aggressive.  It was a perfect Summer night.  The kind you long for when you don’t even know you’re longing.

“When can I see you again?” he asked while holding my hands.  I encouraged him to plan something fun, since he seems to know where the fun is.

“You know we go together now, right?” he asked before giving me a hug and leaving.  I giggled like a child, and blushed profusely, and floated back to my thrift shop of a basement apartment.

About half an hour later he text me kissing emojis.  I typically hate that kind of thing but he’s so fine that I let it slide.

“Thank for stopping by,” I replied.

“Thanks for letting me.”

And I never heard from him again.

I hate flying.  My mother has worked for Delta Airlines almost as long as I’ve been alive; hence, I’ve been flying almost as long as I’ve been alive.  Yet, every time I do it, it never feels right to me.  I cannot from my limited understanding of physics as it relates to air travel conceptualize why we are able to fly in airplanes.  I’m sure there’s a book, a blog, an article somewhere that could break it down into Layman’s terms for me, but I remain in my willing ignorance about it. Last Friday I flew home for my monthly visit (there’s a joke in there somewhere) using my flight privileges which means standby.  Standby is trash and never let anyone tell you different.  I somehow made a 5:30 PM flight home when I had been number 72 on the standby list on the previous flights.  “There’s no way I’m getting out of here today,” I thought to myself.  I started mentally sending texts to friends to let them know I wouldn’t be able to make it this weekend, and I looked up and saw that I had been assigned a seat.  I now know that I inexplicably made that flight because God wanted me to meet the woman I sat next to.

I inched my way toward my seat in the very back of the plane still tired from the work day and the commute to LaGuardia.  Finally I made it to my row of three and there was Mindy and her son.  We exchanged the usual pleasantries of “hello, can I squeeze by?  Sure, let me just.”  My desperate attempt to sleep failed miserably and of course we hit “some rough air” and there was turbulence.  Anxiety level now at 10.  Mindy and I shot each other a look “I hate flying,” she said to me with a nervous smile.  I forced a quick head nod and awkward smile back.  And there was the beginning of our hour and a half friendship.  Mindy told me all about how she’s a stay at home soccer mom and that she and her family lived in London for four years.  “It was such a tough decision to move back to the states because we really loved it over there,” she said with her eyes welling up with tears.  “We prayed on it profusely and asked God to lead us.  I felt in my spirit we should head back to the states and a month later I found out I had breast cancer,” she confessed with tears rolling down her face.  I listened intently to her story, wondering if there is a voice in my head that I’m ignoring.  We talked the remainder of the flight and she introduced me to the rest of her family who were seated elsewhere once we landed.  “Isn’t she beautiful?” she asked her young son.  “She’s too old for me mom,” he quipped back in that super honest adorable way that children do.  She asked if she could hug me and we did and went our separate ways.

Mindy’s words about trusting that voice really stuck with me, because I wonder so often if I’m doing the right thing by staying in New York.  I expected to struggle and to be challenged, but for how long?  How do we know when it’s time to fight harder, or to pull out?  I’m scooting in closer to myself so that I can hear that voice that will tell me.  I believe that at this moment I am exactly where I should be, but I wonder how long I’m supposed to go without and struggle in the name of a dream that sometimes feels like a nightmare because of the burden of money.  Odd isn’t it that I can trust a pilot whom I don’t know at all to fly me to and from home, but I struggle to trust God who I know intimately to lead me to my purpose?  Fear of flying.