Storm and the 35 year old Kid

I am 99% sure that the bagger at my neighborhood grocery store is in love with me, but to say the least, he is not my type.
This guy has to be at least 35. He has let it slip that he still lives with his parents. He is shaped like a weeble-wobble, and wears these HORRIBLE tight shorts that go all the way up to his armpits. On top of this, he has an obsession with Anime and science fiction, and follows me around the store telling me endless facts about Star Track and X-Men. I made the mistake of telling him that Storm is my favorite X-Man, so now that is what he calls me...Storm. He has even asked me to accompany him to some movies, like The Hulk and Iron Man.
But what can I say, I am just not into this guy and he clearly likes me. No, instead I am into guys that are clearly gay or that clearly have girlfriends. Why can't I like the guy that likes me, even if he is a bit odd?
What makes me sad is that I don't want to date this guy for the same superficial reasons that guys haven't wanted to date me in the past. I mean, it's not like he isn't cute. He's just uncle-who-has-finished-eating-short ribs-at-the-family-reunion-with-his-pants-unzipped cute. I mean, why can't I have a sexy man like my friends on Facebook who look like they are dating male models? He could even be a diamond in the rough. I mean, didn't Steve turn into Stefan Urkel?
All I can do is sigh about the whole thing. I'm just not attracted to my Dragoncon-attending buddy, although I wish I was. He's really nice, and not liking him makes me feel like an asshole. I'm too old and too not-perfect to be so picky. I don't recall Storm having such high standards. Neither does Halle Barry.

Hindsight

I'm watching the view right now, and Barbara Walters just talked about how she was watching TV and there was an interview with this old woman who just got out of jail on parole. She looked like she could be someone's granny, primarily because she'd been in jail for over thirty years. She'd tried to assassinate President Ford. Anywho, they interviewed her and she said looking back, she didn't even recognize the woman who tried to kill Jerry.
So if I look back, which can't be too far back, I don't think me at 12 or 6 would recognize me. I used to have such high expectations for myself. The younger mes predicted that I would be in a super serious relationship by now and living in some sky rise loft someplace, maybe Atlanta, maybe Paris. I was going to be AWESOME! Today, I have no drive. I wake up like six times before I decide if I want to get out of bed. Sometimes I don't. It's no secret that I don't have a man, and I live in a small room off my Aunt's garage with no window.
Uggghhhh, I am sooooo wiped out. Hopefully me at 48 will not be disappointed.

Strong Black Crap

Today I went out for dinner with my cousins. This was an especially special dinner because my cousins are in college, and I only get to see them on their holiday breaks. Plus my older cousin Steph, who is like the Golden Cousin if that makes any sense, was in town from Alabama with her boyfriend.
Yes, the boyfriend.
I have to say that I was excited about meeting him because I hadn't before. I only knew that he and my cousin had been dating for two years and that whenever I talked to her, she talked about him, so I assumed it was serious.
Yet sadly, I have to admit that upon meeting him, I was annoyed. But not regular annoyed. It was like he annoyed my spirit before he even said hello.
He was one of those animated brothers; one of those guys that talks with his hands and uses his voice like he's doing a spoken word piece. Very theatrical. He is also one of those brothers who talk over you and changes the subject frequently, even though he may initiate the conversation. It was weird.
We got into this lovely neo-negro discussion about the "independent woman" theory and yes, it has now become a theory. He quoted the Lynch letter and jail statistics to back up his point on why men can not approach women; why they should be cut a break. He was just going on and on, straying further and further away from the point, wooing my other cousins by his ability to state facts and statistics when out of nowhere I thought to myself, "This must be the strong black man."
This was a joke to myself initially, but as he went on and on I began to think about it. His need to prove a point even though it's not on the point. Going on and on to make himself look better. It was not only infuriating and annoying and agitating and boring but it caused me to wonder, as a young Black woman that took on the "Strong Black Woman" title, is that the way that I come off to others? Like an obnoxious prick? Don't get me wrong, he's a nice, funny guy, but it's like he could not talk about even the simplest of topics without quoting books and studies. I feel that this is a characteristic, and a flaw, amongst young, black scholars. Seeing it come from a man and not my HBCU girlfriends was both, to say the least, clarifying and horrifying.
I also could not help but think about the role that the young black scholar plays in our communities. If this is the way that we talk to our other brothers and sisters that may not have had our education, no wonder the community has detached from the talented tenth: we are assholes.
I guess we just need to go back to layman's terms...if we can remember how to.

Alter Talk

I decided to call my friend Chrissy the other day for some random kicks and giggles when she broke it to me that she is getting married.
As she discussed her plans for the wedding , this weird feeling swooshed around in my stomach. It was like I was totally happy for her, but mortified for myself. You see, Chrissy is the first one of my friends to actually be getting married. Of course, I have those friends who claim to be engaged or who call some booty buddy their husband, but Chrissy is actually getting married. I mean, she bought a dress, so it's pretty much official.
The reason I became creeped out is that everybody knows that once the first friend gets married, your when-are-you-getting-married clock starts ticking. I don't want to get married myself, but my blood ran cold thinking of how many weddings I would have to attend for my other girlfriends, having to keep repeating my Rated G reasons for why I don't want to tie the knot. Probably some bull-wrapped blabber about work and finances.
Even if I wanted to get married, the odds are not in my corner. Neither my mom nor my aunts are married, and I have come to believe that whether or not you will get married is genetic. Plus, my mom once told me that if you don't find your husband in undergrad, you will never get married. I used to think that that was far-fetched, but not anymore after meeting all the college-educated single women here in Atlanta, 30 and up.
I've known since I was a kid that I was going to be the old maid, primarily because everything an old maid has is her own. She doesn't have to share or answer to anyone. But now, since Chrissy is getting married and I'm sure that she is not the only friend that will, I will seriously have to come to terms with this way sooner than I wanted to.

Sometimes you feel like a nut...

The best, meaning the worst, thing about watching a loved one suffer from Alzheimer's is witnessing yourself crack.
Lately, I've found myself forgetting things which of course sends me into a panic similar to the ones that my grandma has when she can't remember my name. So now I find myself giving myself little mental quizzes and if I don't pass them, or if I don't feel I remembered a name or place quickly enough, I want to cry.
When I was younger I watched a documentary on ETV on Vivian Vance, the lady that played Ethal on I Love Lucy. Apparently, her mother lost her mind when she was young, so when she got older, Vivian carried a note card with her name and address in her purse so that in the event that she lost her mind, whoever found her roaming the streets would be able to return her home. The documentary was scary to me then, but its horrifying to me now. Funny how you take little things for granted like being able to know your own name off hand.
So the other day my mother tells me that my great-grandfather, my grandma's father, had Alzheimer's. I do not remember him, but oddly enough, I do remember spinning in circles outside of his hospital when I was younger. Nonetheless, hearing this tidbit of info was bone chilling. This means my mother could get this disease and I would have to watch this Hell all over again. Then I could get it, and get to watch myself waste away. I could get to watch myself not know my children, get my ass wiped by strangers, and overall lose touch.
The whole thing sucks to say the least. It sucks that I have to deal with this with my grandma, it sucks that I may one day have to deal with it myself, and there's nothing I can do about it now to prevent it.

No thank you, thank you

If one more person tells me that they are proud of me for deciding to work out, I am going to throw up.
I was on the treadmill the other day at the gym, sweating and minding my own business, when I noticed this woman staring at me. Not checking me out staring, but staring at me all the same. I am used to people staring at me at the gym, and in life in general, so I decided to ignore her. Then I noticed her pacing back and forth, you know, the way you pace when you are thinking whether or not to say something. Finally, she walked over to me, introduced herself, told me what church she went to, quoted a scripture, then told me that I was an inspiration to her. I fear that she would have hugged me if I was not in motion.
Later in the week, I went to a Kickbox Cardio class taught by an instructor that I secretly refer to as "The Nazi." The class was so tough that, by the end of the hour, more than half of the class had walked out. I would have myself, but I was not close enough to the door, and did not want to go through the humiliation of the rest of the class seeing that I couldn't stand the heat. At one point, I was literally crying face down on my mat because I could not lift my body on my fists. So, at the end of the class, as I limped over to the back of the room to put my mat away, the other women came up to me to tell me how well I did and to "not give up."
And who can forget that woman who makes the samples at my neighborhood grocery store who insists that I try to go on The Biggest Loser. She just knows that I could win because I have "personality."
I am literally being suffocated by all of the support. I am tired of my friends telling me that they are proud of me. Is there nothing else that I have done in 24 years of existence that deserves more praise than my deciding to go to the gym three times a week? I could write a fitness book on all the tips the women give me in the locker room and biographies of all their family members who were big like me and did nothing, now they have diabetes. It's annoying!
I know that people are trying to be helpful or supportive, but I am doing this because I have to, not to be some thin lady's role model.

The Sickness of Youth

Do you suffer from feelings of hopelessness, a lack of drive and bouts of Depression? Are you consistently tired? Do you find yourself crying as a solution to the irrelevant of issues? Are your easily agitated and annoyed? Do you find yourself wanting to be alone all the time? Do you often feel sluggish? If you recognize these symptoms, you could be in your 20s...or suffering from PMDD.
When I was a kid, I used to calculate how many years it would be before I was twenty-one. That was my ideal age in the second grade. At twenty-one I would have a boyfriend, a big, pretty apartment, a fancy car and a really cool job. Now, at twenty-four, the only boyfriend I've ever had is gay, I live at home in a small room with no windows and I do not know how to drive. However, my job is kind of cool.
I don't know who to be mad at, society or myself; society for leading me to believe that my 20s would be the best years of my life or myself for buying into the hype.
On television shows, women in their twenties are CEOs and have wild romances; they wear Jimmy Choos and have front row seats during fashion week. There is no way that I can identify with this lifestyle. If I had to define being in my 20s, I would define it by this panging, constant feeling of urgency; by this deep need to "make it" already. I feel like the memories of my early 20s are dominated by searching for jobs and planning for graduate school more than having carefree fun in the sun. I do not know what the next half of my 20s has in store for me, but I have to say, this half sort of sucks.

Untitled: The Untold Story

Yes, Miss Independent. Can we all just stand up and give her a round of applause? She is this generation's answer to the feminist. She pays her own bills. She has a good paying job. She will probably own her own home before she's thirty, and is making the type financial investments that her grandmother would have never imagined to ever do on her own. I mean I guess I'll just say it. She's the shit. Come on, I know that you were thinking it.

Yet Miss Independent's biggest accomplishment is the creation of the "titleless" relationship. You see, after a long day reading legal briefs, Miss Independent, or Indi as I like to call her, has no time for the strain of relationships to the point that dating has been boiled down to texting her regular for ass after work. And this is great. I mean, how many years were women not able to take control of their bodies and sex lives? I say here-here Indi. I mean, Indi has the put the ball in the female's court. The whole thing would be beautiful...if it weren't a disaster.

This whole idea of having relationships without calling it one is great if you never want to be in a committed relationship; if you never want to get married. Basically, these titleless jobs are screwing us all in the game. Without a title, without acknowledgment of being the girlfriend, there is no need for courtship. No dinner. No movies. Not even the ever-so-missed late night hour phone call to the soundtrack of a Pretty Ricky album. Everything revolves around no strings attached sex. And if you do go out, you are picking up the tab. You are Miss Independent after all.

Call me Madame Cleo because I can see ever so clearly into my crystal ball. By giving our milk away for free and sometimes at our own expense, we have flushed any responsibility of men to work for our 'ginas down the toilets. It has gotten to the point that if you try to hold out as grandma told us we should, we will get left behind, passed over for the next Indi who is ready and willing to pick up a booty relationship to fit into her schedule. We have created a trend of "no commitment needed" dating that men have fallen into quickly and comfortably that will take us more time to break than it did to begin. It's like we were just listening to our Jay-Jays for the here and now and not the long hall. What man will commit to us in our thirties when there is a younger woman with a tighter body that wants to have the fun that was once our rule of thumb?

This week I talked to two of my male friends that told me that they never want to get married. They want to be bachelors forever like Peter Pan, having all the childlike fun they want well into their 90s and picking up the occasional Indie to fulfill their needs. One of these friends, Hal, said that this is the route he's taking because he can't find a girl who wants things 50/50. This is a total example of the aftermath of Indi. Is it just me, or aren't men supposed to one day grow to be providers? I mean, isn't that the rule of the land? Well... maybe it was before pussy became easier to get than gas.

Of course, most of my single girlfriends play the Indi game. Well, at least they think that they are. They like the come and go routine until they realize that the relationship is not progressing. Notice I say relationship because, although we hate to admit it, girls are not programmed to stick it and quit it. Unless its a one-night stand type of thing, women, including Indies, are prone to label something when it includes an exchange of body fluids. So the Indi, even though she created the guidelines for the titleless relationship, finds herself alone at the end when the guy is scared off by her sudden need to label whatever it is they had where she was doing most of the emotional and physical giving.

My friend Quinton says that I don't understand the whole titleless phenom because I don't have sex. If I did, according to Quinton, I'd understand the need to give up the "girlfriend" nameplate for the unlimited amount of sex that comes with being titleless. You can either demand a title and end up alone or don't demand one and at least get screwed.

Sadly, I feel that this is the mindset of a lot of sisters. You don't want to be alone, but you don't have the time for a relationship or can't find anyone suitable, so why not settle so you can at least be someones nothing sometimes? Again, our grandmothers called this giving the milk away for free. And sadly, if us Indies don't wake up and smell the coffee, we will find ourselves sad in our 30s and 40s with empty milk jugs, wishing that we would have asked a little bit more of men...and of ourselves.

Facebook and the Young Mother

It seems that I can not log on to Facebook these days without seeing some Sears portrait of another one of my friends pregnant or holding her newborn with her bejeweled, cornrowed baby-daddy.

When I was in middle school, I remember fearing getting my period because once you got a period, you could get pregnant, and once you got pregnant, your life would be over and you would receive a first-class ticket from the state to the community college, a bus pass, and some WIC vouchers which, since you could get real cheese and Juicy Juice, would make the whole thing feel worthwhile. And then of course, you would have the baby, your Aunty would throw you a shower in the back of her hair salon with you and twenty of your other pregnant, teen buddies, and then your boyfriend would disappear...either by choice or incarceration.

I say all this to say that I have been groomed from a young age to fear pregnancy; to loathe the idea of having a baby. So when I log on to Facebook for my daily chats and photo surfing, my stomach tightens to see that a large portion of my female friends, some of them up to five years younger than me, are having or have had a baby. The other day I had to stop myself from accidentally posting "I'm sorry girl:(" under one of the pics of her newborn.

Okay, I know what you are thinking and yes, I am aware that I am 24 and that is old enough to start a family. But if you mention the word baby to me, I might as well be twelve, waiting for my first period. I am also aware that if I want to start a family, the best of my baby-bearing years will be over is 6 years. Who wants to be the oldest mom at the PTA meeting, the one that they stick with making the bake sale cookies because all the young mothers have jobs and active social lives?

And guys with kids? Please, every guy I have liked that I met outside of the college dating pool has had kids. My mom had a boyfriend when I was growing up. A child doesn't have to tell me how much they hate the fill-in step parent.

Do I want kids? I don't know. I do know that once I felt that I was sooo in love that I wanted to have a boy's babies. Can you imagine? If that disaster would have come to pass, I would have a two-year-old right now! I would be the one with pics of myself at the birthday party with the Batman cake and the Bob the Builder birthday dunce caps; I would be a mother.

Mother. Christ, it feels like I just learned how to spell that word while I have friends that are living it. It's weird! One day, probably about six years from now, I will be complaining about wanting kids and not having any, hoping that I keep getting periods as long as possible until I can make it to the sperm bank. Six years from now my baby fear will be replaced by...by no-baby fear.

For now, I guess all I can do is be there for my new mommy homies, and wait with my chastity belt slightly ajar, in hopes of finding the bejeweled, cornrowed baby-daddy of my dreams.

3 is the new 2

Over the past month, about five of my friends have called me to tell me that they've just been in a threesome.

Apparently, these sexcapades are going on in my friends' lives while I'm at home in bed watching The Hills and eating Oreos with my hair wrapped wearing my old dependable holey nightgown.

I am the first to admit that I am sexually oblivious. I have been a graduate of Xavier University for two years and I am just now finding out who did who and when. But I thought the threeway was the last card in the deck for desperate married couples!

Yesterday I was watching Tyra with my grandma in the nursing home and this 19-year-old girl told her parents that she'd had a threesome in an elevator with some other girl and man that she didn't know on the family cruise.

So if I am correct, if the threeway is the last card in the deck and the Tyra girl was 19 and my friends are in their early 20s, then what will be doing to get off in ten years, fucking cats?

Okay. Let me slow my roll. Maybe I'm going overboard here.

A close girlfriend of mine told me that she and her two guy friends just met up one night and the threesome just kind of happened. Just kind of happened. You have to understand that I have always been a cautious person. I look both ways before I cross the street and keep a travel-sized Lysol in my purse just in case I have to pee at the mall. I have never just kind of ever did anything, especially not sucked a dick while taking it up my ass in a basement.

Am I being rude? I'm sorry, but I just want you to know how foreign this is to me. It was not until college that I became comfortable with hugging. And I have to say, this whole threesome thing is making me paranoid.

Kind of like when I was in the fifth grade and used to watch scribble porn at my uncle's house. After that, if I saw a female teacher talking to a male one, I just assumed it was to schedule sex. Or if the pizza man came to the door and didn't leave immediately, he wasn't waiting on his tip, he was waiting for me to strip. Now, when my favorite couple invites me to their apartment for our bi-weekly Scrabble games, I sit at the end of the couch drinking a Red Bull, afraid that if I doze off, they will try to get something poppin'.

But maybe that would not be a bad thing. Perhaps I am thinking of this all wrong. My friends don't have accelerated sex lives. I'm just behind. I have always sort of felt like I need to loosen up and get with the times and now that I think about it, what better time than in your 20s to explore? If anyone needs me I'll be in my basement...multitasking.

Getting Physical

The other day I think that I lost my virginity to the bicycle seat in my spin class.

Recently, I joined a gym. It just kind of happened. I went to the gym office to receive a free two week pass that I didn't plan on using when I was sweet-talked into buying a membership. What can I say? The skinny white teenagers in bikinis looked like they were having so much fun in the pool in the orientation video.

Fast forward to Tuesday. I decided to go with my Aunt Lara to a spin class. For those of you who do not know, a spin class in this super intense group bicycling class. I had first heard about it on some show about celebrity work out trends. I don't know why I, at over 400lbs, though I could take the same work-out class that Halle Berry takes six times a week but what the hell? On the show, it looked fun.

So I got to the class early because I was excited, which was good, because it took 20 minutes for the instructor, who was as big as I was in the third grade, to strap me on to the bike,

"There," she said, stepping back and smiling at me on the bike, "doesn't that feel good?"
"Yes," I lied.

I assume that she could tell I did not feel good, but walked away anyway. My feet were strapped onto the peddles with leather straps. The seat was so high that I was hunched over the bike, and the sharp tip of the seat felt like it was actually in my vagina. Just maintaining that God-awful position was a workout. I was sweating profusely, and those who know me know that I never sweat.

Literally three minutes into the class, I left. I unhooked myself from the bike and walked out. It was just too hard, and I felt pathetic because I hate giving up on something. But I had to force myself to come to terms with the fact that I couldn't do it before I started screaming in the middle of the gym.

As I started walking back to the locker room, I became very angry that I even joined the gym in the first place. Everyone was sexy and skinny and cute and young and flirting with each other over blueberry soy smoothies. I clearly didn't belong there. I have never felt out of place waiting for my order at McDonald's or shopping at Lane Bryant. How was I supposed to want to work out next to tall, brown, super muscular topless men in small shorts? The idea made me want to cry.

And cry I did next to a naked lady in the steam room. I guess some things, unlike placing my order for a Number 1 with an ice cream cone and three cookies for a dollar, are difficult to do.

...And the point is?

If you live your life the way you are supposed to, if you fear God and put all your energy into being good to others and fulfilling your dreams, if you don't litter, if you grow up and get married and pay taxes and shit three times a day, if you make your children your world and teach them how to sit with their ankles crossed and say 'please' and 'thank you', if you don't lie and if you brush and floss before and after meals, you still are not safe because you are working towards an end and then in the end, nothing is in your hands and you do not get to bask in the goodness that you worked toward your whole life to claim. If this is not just my observation and really the way that it is, then ladies and gentlemen, I am happy to tell you that WE ARE ALL ROYALLY FUCKED!

Why the starry-eyed optimism you may be asking? My grandmother was recently moved into a nursing home after being released from the hospital. She has Alzheimer's Disease. She has only been in the home for about three days, and she does not leave her bedroom, which she shares with a wheelchair-bound woman who can't hear worth a damn. I am glad that she can not leave the room because I feel that even in her state of mind she would recognize that the home, much like other homes across the nation, is just a rest stop before you pack your bags for the pearly gates. It's not that bad I guess, but it is impersonal. Grandma has like 4 doctors and numerous nurses, sometimes different ones depending on shift changes. They have a habit of talking about her in the third person as if she is not there when her hearing is A+. Old people sit in wheelchairs in the halls with wide, 'my mind is in la-la land' smiles, and the nurses and orderlies smile their 'if you only knew you were about to croak' smiles back.

This is my grandmother's end. This is why she lived day to day trying to live the best life that she could. Shitty, huh?

To make things better, meaning worst, I recently talked to my father about my grandfather's death. In high school, I was told that he died but not really told how. Apparently, he suffered from alcoholism and substance abuse and had a stroke, just to starve himself to death in the nursing home.

When you live long enough to see someone you love suffer from a deteriorating illness, your emotions are at a crossroads. Do you live your life to the fullest because it will one day be snatched away or tip-toe cautiously through life hoping that you will be rewarded in the end? I am related by blood to two people who chose one of each path, and ended up in the same place in the end. I am not at all sure what this is supposed to say to me, but I find myself wondering what the point is.