Love and Middle Age- The Story of 🍦

Recently, I got to figuratively sit at the feet of one of my favorite grios, TAFKAS. He may be the only person that I went to college with that has more stories than me, and you know how I love a good story! The best thing about his stories is that he hung out with a completely different group of people, so I often get an entertaining tale with an unintentional side of tea. In this particular conversation, he told me the story of 🍦, a tragedy concerning long-lost love.

It's funny that he mentioned 🍦 because he had come up in a conversation with LadyChatsAlot about a month ago! I suggested that they go out together since they are single and living in the same place. Honestly, that is the only connection you need when mixin' and minglin' in the HBCU graduate world. She's single. He's divorced. Sounds like a winner! 

"Nah, 🍦only likes ghetto women," she said. Then she told me a whole lot of other things about🍦that are none of my business but that I sucked up like a daiquiri! These things were on my mind when TAFKAS went into his story about 🍦 but from a different perspective. 

TAFKAS started by painting a picture of 🍦and his relationship with a girl named Chelle freshman year. I did not know her well. All I knew is that she had one of the most perfect butts I'd ever seen! I remember them being together, and I have also heard a hundred different variations of stories concerning why they ended. These things are not important. What is important is that 🍦still pines for this woman 20 years later. 

"He works out so that Chelle can see how strong he is," TAFKAS said. "He has his job so that Chelle can see what a success he is. Everything he does is so that Chelle can see what she missed out on." Something about that statement sat on my chest and was pulling at my heartstrings that night as I scrolled through 🍦's social media feed. Every pic of him out with friends or exercising now seemed to have a double meaning. My old friend DZ had once told me that she never got over any of the men she had loved, and that they all had a place in her heart. I felt the same way, but I had no idea that men dealt with these same types of heartaches. Especially not men that I hear are as...social as 🍦 is. 

Then this morning as I did my early morning meditation ( laying in my room in the midnight hour, grunting into the darkness), a thought flashed across my mind that caused me to sit up in horror! 🍦hasn't been with Chelle since he was 18 or 19 years old, and I have heard experts say that at our age, if you are single, you probably know or have already met the person you are supposed to be with. What if many of us blew it with our soulmates when we were too young to even know what was going on- when the clock had started without our permission? When we were too immature to invest or divest in our relationships? That would mean that many of us missed out on love before we were even aware that there was love to be missed! Now many of us are waiting on something that has already come and gone, or we are in something that should be with someone else. This is so sad and scary for me! What if our cosmic future does really rely on our early decisions from a time when we sucked at making decisions? If this true, we are all on a hamster wheel and for what? Kicks and giggles?

I pray that this is not true. If it is, my true love is a deceased gay man that was everything to me in my teens. If this is true for 🍦, his true love was not even his ex-wife, but a girl he fell for back when many of us thought that Nelly, Nelly, was the greatest rapper alive! Man, is age sobering or what?! And that is real talk, no country grammar. 

Not Another Fatty Moment

When I was in middle school, I used to believe that I was psychic. I had a way of sensing what was going to happen and it would happen! This led to my little hobby of reading my friends' palms. Let me be clear: I couldn't read palms then and I can't read them now. But my friends would ask me a question, and I would look at their palms and just check my gut for the answer to their issue. And I'd be right. Today, I understand that I was wrong. If I was at all psychic I could avoid some of the traumatic things that happen to me. 

Last weekend, I went with my younger brother to get his eye exam and to order some new glasses. I hate it when something bad happens to me when I'm not even out doing things for myself! 

Once he ordered his glasses, I ordered us a rideshare ride to go home. I was beyond ready to go, partly because I had to pee and I don't pee in public potties because you know...Monkey Pox. 

So the ride comes and my brother and I get in. I close the door and look up at the driver who goes, "Oh no, I am sorry ma'am but I can not give you a ride. You are too big and I won't be able to move the car."

"What?" I asked, sure she hadn't just said what I thought. 

"See, I won't be able to move. See," she said, pointing her finger at some light on the dashboard. I don't know how to drive, so I don't know what the light was. But what I did sense was bullshit because half of my paycheck goes to riding rideshares across the city every month! 

"So you have to get out and cancel the ride," she said with such high anxiety in her voice that it was making my anxiety raise. "You have to cancel the ride," she said again and louder when I wasn't moving fast enough for her. 

And that's when I shut off, thank God! 

One of the best things that I have taught myself to do over my 37 years is turn myself off. When I feel like something is about to hurt, I just shut down. It's second nature now. I imagine myself flipping a light switch and just like that, I am off. I taught myself how to do this in high school. These boys in the back of the school bus used to make full-on rap songs about me and how gross they thought I was and it was so hurtful that I taught myself how to fall asleep almost instantaneously so I wouldn't have to hear it. By the time I woke up, I was home and well-rested. 

"I'm so sorry," she said. My eyes were crossing, trying to stay shut down and hear her as well. 

"What?" I asked, motioning to get out of the car. 

"I'm sorry. It's not right. You should be able to get a ride just like anybody else even though you big."

And then my mouth dropped. SHE STARTED CRYING! No blubbering or anything, just water in her eyes. 

I could not believe what I was experiencing! I would have thought it was a dream if my brother wasn't next to me, in shock! She said I was too fat to get a ride, but her feelings were hurt?! Guys, I moved so quickly to get out of her car that I almost fell over the sidewalk. I went to the rideshare app and canceled the ride. 

"I canceled it," I said into the car window once I had done so. 

"I am so sorry," she said again before pulling off. 

And there I stood in front of an America's Best in a grocery store strip mall. I opened my mouth to scream, but all I could muster was a sigh. I walked over to a bench and sat down, reflecting on how I hadn't seen this incident playing out the way it had when I looked deeply into my palms that morning. 

Gyno-oh-no

I have to go to the gynecologist next week for my annual exam. 

Maybe this would not be such a huge ordeal if I wasn't still traumatized from my last visit. WHAT A DISASTER! There were a lot of tears, a lot of anxiety, and a lot of stress. I don't even get why I even have to go. I don't get any action. The chances of my actually utilizing my box are about as slim as an anorexic White girl!  Not to mention that I almost killed myself trying to get on the examination table last time. It was so high! I had to run and jump to get on it and the damn thing almost flipped over on me! Can you imagine a more unfortunate way to die than getting smushed under an exam table while preparing for a routine pap?! I'd rather my family tell my friends that I was shot in a whore house raid. 

On top of the horror of it all, I am currently beefing with my gyno. A few weeks ago, I thought that I might be getting a yeast infection (TMI), and if you read my blog, you recall how mortifying my last one was. It was my first one ever, and I was hysterical! I know what you are thinking: you were 36, how is that possible? I had the same question. Since I had never had one, I thought somehow that I was immune to them. Spoiler alert: I'M NOT! Anywho, I mentally could not handle the melodrama of last year, so I called and asked the nurse at the gyno office to ask the doc to write me a prescription for a common yeast infection medication. Long story short, he said no. HE SAID NO! He said he wanted me to come in, even though I had just been in for blood work this summer and already had an upcoming appointment on the books. Then the nurse tells me that I can either come in or go to urgent care. URGENT CARE? Why would I do that if I have a f&*king gynecologist?! What am I, a commoner? The reason why I got a gynecologist with an address and a mailbox and a degree was so that I would not have to sit in a crowded urgent care room, silently praying over my crotch while being sneezed on by the COVID positive. Being told no by a man in this situation outraged me so much that I can't even explain it. 

When I think about arriving for my visit, I imagine being dragged into the office and across the carpet by a giant as I scream and claw at the floor. Winter is already an emotional landmine for me, I honestly can't take any more drama. We have come so far in science as a country, how is there no at-home pap test women can perform on themselves in the privacy of their homes? I could easily do mine as I caught up on reruns on Hulu. Ah, to wish on a star. 

I will keep yall posted on what will inevitably be another fine nightmare. Yay. 

Money Talks

"I made bipityblahdumpity this year in sales," Mary said. She was sitting on a bar stool, sipping on a cocktail that matched her lipstick, wearing a pair of glasses from her own collection. She, me, and Carolita were reunited for our quarterly supper club outings which took a hiatus during COVID. We were at one of those Atlanta dives where the waitresses have fat asses and visible lace fronts. The music being played was suitable for a middle-tier strip joint or, in this case, waiting over two hours for overcooked, oily fried green tomatoes. "Twipitiydobitty sustainable business model," she went on to say. "...investments with a poopity return over a 12-month minimum."

I could feel my eyes glazing over, so I looked to Carolita for clarification, only to become even more lost. 

"Me and my sister do a yaddayadda."

"What's that?" Mary asked. 

"That's where you twinkletwinkle on a star for a diddybop," she explained. 

I just stood there, my eyes bouncing between the two of them. What were they talking about?! And why didn't I know what they were talking about? And how did they have money to do all this stuff? Oh right, they have real jobs, I thought to myself. That and some deep well of knowledge around money that I just do not have. I am literally two years away from 40 and know as much about investing as a newborn! I guess I should start hoarding the canned goods now for darker days. 

I read somewhere once that how you were raised has a lot to do with your attitude toward money. Carolita was raised in a solid two-parent home. Granted I don't know all the details, but I don't think that she ever had to sell water on the side of the expressway to make ends meet. Mary is the daughter of hardworking Nigerians. My grandmother was literally scared to spend money while I had witnessed my mom write checks for food at the Winn-Dixie with her fingers crossed. I guess I fall someplace in between the two of them. 

"If I had a thousand dollars to invest, where would you advise me to put it?" I asked Mary. This was a serious question. 

"That's a hard question," she said, sipping on one of those really skinny cocktail straws. I am assuming that this is a hard question because a thousand bucks is the equivalent of five cents in the investment game. 

This conversation lingered on my mind, even after the dinner. I want to be a lady boss too! How can I be down? 

"Well, I am not balling like them," Tasha assured me when I told her about what we had talked about. For a split second I felt relieved. Maybe I could have a roommate who I knew in the low-income nursing facility. But then she went on to talk about how her grandparents were leaving her property when they die and how her mom hand been saving and investing for her since the womb! 

I got off the phone and just stared at the wall in silence. How did I allow this to happen to me?! I can't be the little old lady who lived in her shoes because I only have one good pair! I am going to be the angry old lady who fashioned a tent out of her plus-size maxi dresses to squat under a bridge. I should have been more motivated! I saw how not having money stressed out my mother. And it's not like I ever deluded myself into believing that some man was going to come a long and support me. Men have always picked over me like rotten fruit and the ones that didn't wanted money from me! Now I am skidding towards middle age without a pot to piss in! As you know I am a writer; I love a good story. But not even I want to know how the story ends for the almost 40-year-old that didn't prepare appropriately for life. 

I can't whine about this anymore. My anxiety is rising. Plus, time is money. 

The Slump

I woke up the other day and realized that what I had felt in the middle of the night was true: the heaviness of the holidays had found me and wrapped itself around my body like a blanket that I couldn't take off. 

"Great," I said rolling over on my side, defeated. 

Silly me, I had thought that seasonal depression had given me a break. But if anything, it has become more cunning over the years. It totally snuck up on me, causing me to remember that we were in the holiday season. We obviously are, but I had somehow forgotten. 

My holiday depression is a real blast! I can zone out for hours, staring into space. I become incredibly forgetful and absent-minded. It takes days for me to complete simple tasks. And I can sleep hard and heavy for hours. 

This go-'round, there are no tears. No sadness, or at least not the sadness that I am used to. I just want to be left alone to sit in the dark and do nothing. Really guys, I consider this a win compared to holiday seasons past. 

Man, I need to be back in therapy. I would look for the referrals I was given, but I'm too tired. 

Homecoming Post 9: 37 Savage and the Bad Shot Shoot (A Cane the Kappa Story)

Once upon a time at Xavier University, I had devised an "airtight" plan to streak through this sorority's portion of the Fall 2004 Neophyte Show. This was back when all the Greek lines came out at the same time. And we would all gather in our newly purchased mall fits to watch our closest friends cross. Some girls I really, really liked crossed in that line, but I had had a BAD time with their elders my freshman year. In 2003, I served on the homecoming committee under the Miss Xavier at the time who was part of said sorority. Child, the abuse me and the other committee members underwent under that itty bitty tiny woman! I will never forget the committee chairman's face when she came into the room, denied our budget request, then told us our event plans sucked. Then there was the one that I chased across campus in the rain because she wouldn't let me walk with her under her enormous sorority umbrella. WE WERE GOING TO THE SAME PLACE! And of course, there was that gorgeous one whose name I don't recall who may have truly been the prettiest girl I'd ever seen in my life! She Rosa Parked me and made me get off of the sorority bench where I was sitting, rubbing my feet after a failed attempt to walk to class in Payless heels. Anyway, the goal was to drop my robe, run naked to the middle of the gym, do the tootsie roll, then run out the side door. I say all this to say that my streaking plan may have been better put together than my plan to get the attention of Cane the Kappa.

Cane is a mystery wrapped in a theory baked in suspense and I want to know him. I have wanted to know him for some time. He is one of those people that no one knows but everyone knows because you can't help but to know him. To me, he looks out of place even when he is blending in. And when I see him, drinking and being cool with his frat brothers, he reminds me of when I used to go to Que parties as a freshman with my fast friends and try to be fast too when I was an obvious mortified virgin.

Yes, it is true that I am a touch thirsty, but this is more than that. I have entered a season where I am just out here shooting shots, even if the odds are that the ball is going to ricochet off the rim and punch me in the face. So many people have died in my life in the past six years that I just want to do everything, even seemingly senseless things that could leave me looking dumb and feeling stupid. I believe this is referred to as living. Plus, I didn't want to leave things with the 10-year reunion bad hug. Another story for another time. 

I don't like going into any situation without a plan, and my plan for this situation was simple. After getting high off of Youtube videos on eye contact and divine feminine energy, my plan was to simply stare at him. That's right. I was going to focus my ancestral gifted sexiness, grudged up from my root chakra to my eyeballs where I would then stare him down like Cyclops from X-Men until the heat from my sensuous gaze burned into the side of his face. His eyes would then meet mine, and I would visually charm him, like cats charm birds out of trees. Then he would have no choice but to rest his head on my breasts and tell me all his secrets and fears. Those witchy ladies who wear waist beads on Youtube said it was a sure thing! 

It's not. 

It was just my luck that the Kappa tent was right next to the tent for the Class of 2007. I had never seen that many Kappas in one place ever, talking about whatever it is that Kappas talk about when they aren't twirling those cute little sticks. I was two hours into the tailgate before Cane emerged from the Kappa tent with the swag of a toddler that had just awoken from a nap. He stepped to the side of the tent, speaking to two girls who looked like twins that had really nice butts and a lot of hair.

Okay, I thought as I took a deep breath and than began to do my queen stare for what felt like an hour. It could not have been longer than a minute. It actually takes a lot to stare at a person for a long time. This I was not banking on. 

Okay, okay. I shook my head and started over again, this time getting the attention of one of the hair twins. She turned and waved to me and I waved back. Maybe I should have asked for her number because the queen stare was not working on Cane. I was beginning to get a headache. 

Before I could go prepare for round three of this poorly executed eye play, a Kappa came out of the tent wearing fire engine red leather pants (I can't make this up) and walked Cane back into the tent. 

No play from Cane in college. The bad hug. Immunity to my eye powers. I think we have to call this a wrap...until 2025 for the Xavier University 100th year anniversay. What can I say?I have never been good at taking a hint. 

Homecoming Post 8: No Socials and the Flashback (Part 3)

Saturday, November 5 around 3pm- Big Homie Sans and I arrived on Xavier's campus for the tailgate. Out of all of the events at homecoming, I would say that the tailgate is the most anticipated. There is music, food, drinks, and vendors. It's where you can catch up with people and you never know who you are going to run into.

"What's up?" No Socials said in passing, walking around Big Homie Sans and I, heading towards other tents. I stopped at the standing table at my graduating class tent and took a deep breath. It was clear why No Socials was giving me stomach aches. 

First Month of Freshman Year 2003

So at Xavier, the freshmen come to campus about a week before the upperclassmen for Freshman Orientation. That's when you move into the dorm, register for classes, get familiar with the city, etc. It is also when you get to know other kids and learn the ropes from Peer Deans. You are put in color groups. It's really fun! But in my opinion, you really don't get a full scope of what the culture of the school is like until the upperclassmen arrive. I definitely felt like a kid amongst adults, but not in a bad way. I was still pretty excited, getting to know new people. 

I actually met PUSH in the lunch line that first real week of class. He was tall and built. It was obvious that he was an athlete. He had a booming deep voice. Yet what was most interesting about him is that he looked like a famous actor at the time. 

"Do people tell you that you look like 👽?" I asked him. 

"All the time," he said nodding. I mean, the resemblance was so obvious that you would have thought that he was 👽from a distance. The very next day, he was loudly making fun of me with this friends at lunch and dinner. 

I was pretty disappointment by this. I had been made fun of since kindergarten. I had been looking forward to a fresh start, which is what it had been for that magical week. Eight days later, I found myself isolated, eating alone in a building called Xavier South at the other end of campus. It was sad because I liked catching up with my friends at the main cafeteria, but I didn't want trouble with PUSH. I only saw him in the cafeteria, so if I stayed clear of the cafeteria, I rationalized, I could stay clear of him. 

This plan worked for about a week. One day, I was sitting at Xavier South with my friends Sydney and Donna when I saw a basketball player walk in. He was one that I often saw with PUSH. When his eyes met mine, I knew there was gonna be some shit. He took out his phone, texted something, and about five minutes later, most of the team had popped up, including, of course, PUSH. 

The jig was up. I couldn't eat at the main cafeteria. I couldn't eat at Xavier South. I was going to have to ask my grandma to order me a box of Ramen Noodles so that I could eat them in my room alone. Living in an all-girls dorm, I could be sure that PUSH wouldn't show up there. 

PUSH and his teammates got their food and sat directly behind us. Immediately, PUSH began roasting me, talking about how huge and ugly I was. They were having a gay old time, laughing their asses off, and I was truly confused. I had been in college for a little less than three weeks! I didn't know these guys! 

I took a deep breath and turned around. I mean, PUSH was directly behind me. I think that he wanted to make sure that I heard him. I had to confront him. If life had taught me anything up until then, it was that bullies gonna bully if you don't at least attempt to stand up for yourself. This was going to be different though. I had never stood up to a guy that was like 6'4 with 2% body fat before. Even though I weighed more than him, I had no doubt that he could toss me across the floor like a napkin if he wanted to. 

"Did I say something to offend you?" I asked him in an overly professional tone. 

"Whoa!" he exclaimed moving back, as if the power of my weight had pushed him backwards. Then, on reflex, I poured my soda down his pants. 

He jumped up quickly, and I just knew he was going to punch me. 

"You're dead!!" he yelled, reaching for some napkins. 

The situation had obviously escalated, but I didn't notice or care. I felt completely vindicated, seeing the alarmed looks on his friends' faces. I was proud as a peacock, strutting out of that pathetic little eating area, loudly reciting the lyrics to "Wangsta". Even as the restaurant workers called the campus police, I felt like Muhammad Ali. Holly Clay: 1/ PUSH: 0. Boy, never underestimate how things can change in the course of a minute. 

In the midst of my victory lap back to my dorm, I turned around to make sure that PUSH was not behind me, for the basketball team was walking on the other side of the street, talking about what had just happened. I saw him getting into Bob the Builder's Dodge Charger and even from a distance, I could tell from his body language that he was PISSED! Like, violently so. 

Oh shit, I thought to myself, stopping in my tracks. The players on the other side of the street stopped too. Bob The Builder pulled his beautiful car up to the curb. PUSH jumped out of it with a basket of chicken fingers and fries, walked right up to me and smooshed the hot food in my face with the strength of ten men! "You look hungry you fat bitch!" he screamed down at me. I grabbed his white tall tee and he pulled it out of my grasp so quickly that it made my fingertips burn. Donna moved back, unwilling to soil her Polo sweater, and little 5-foot Sydney sprang into action, nipping at his heels like a possessed chihuahua. 

I don't think that I had ever been in shock before that moment. I could feel warm ketchup settling into my scalp, which is tragic, seeing that I had worked all summer to afford microbraids. As Sydney verbally went in on PUSH, I looked down on my clothes and couldn't believe my eyes. I was covered in food crumbs and sauce stains! Then I looked up, directly across the street, and saw a younger, goofier-looking No Socials laughing at me. They were all laughing at me. But it was like I could feel the vibrations from No Socials' voice from across the street he was laughing so hard. He was practically choking on his spit. 

That was 19 years ago. 

How had I forgotten he was there? I asked myself, watching him talking to someone at their tent. I had such a good time in college. Sometimes I forget that every moment wasn't great. 

The Cappin' Captain

I went to school with some real bosses. Pharmacists. Doctors. Lawyers. Business owners. Materially, I do not have as much as many of the people that I graduated with and, admittedly, being what I consider a "have not" played into my not wanting to go to my 10-year reunion with my friend DZ five years ago; played into my insecurity and anxiety. I don't have a $500,000 home or a luxury car. What would I tell people about my life? How could I explain to people that in the 10 years that it took for them to become "rich", I was kind of lost in the world, essentially, with my degree and everything I had ever written? If anyone were to ask me what I was doing at the time professionally, a common question at homecoming, I imagined myself screaming. I imagined myself crying. I imagined myself dropping dead. But one thing that never occurred to me to do was lie.

X lies. X lies big time. X lies to the point that it is almost laughable. If X had seven twins and thirty personalities, X still could not have accomplished everything that X says that X has. And these are not little white lies. These are huge, traceable, and, at times laughable lies. It has gotten to the point that folks are starting to figure this out about X and now have to cross-reference with their circles and contacts if what X is saying is true. Or sorta true. Or complete fiction. 

X is fun. X is funny. X is a good friend to X's friends, but X is also a mystery. A real head-scratcher. For although it has been confirmed that X's resume is about as good as a penny with a hole in it, X still somehow displays the financial fruits of this invisible labor. This, in turn, has turned people who know X into professional hypothesizers. Is X the bastard child of an African prince? Did X win the lottery? Is X an art thief? A Narco? A scammer? I mean, what?! People can't wrap their minds around it! But I can. 

Being completely honest opens you up to judgment and who wants that? Not I said the cat! But lying is exhausting and troublesome. You have to be lightning fast, ready to cover up a previous lie with another one; sidestepping questions and accusations. I am not lightning fast. I am molasses slow. I'd have to come clean after one day of pulling everyone's leg. X has been at it for almost 20 years! Kinfolk always tells me that the grass is not as green as it looks with a lot of our old classmates which is great, because I've never liked grass. DZ would say it is simple as standing in your truth. If I were close enough to X, I would tell X the jig is up and to exit the fairytale into reality. Homecoming is all love, and everyone has their own BS. I'd encourage X to sit next to me on the astroturf and have some spilled tea with me. It doesn't pay to lie, and that's truth. 

Homecoming Post 6: T is for Fataphobe

When you go to a small school like Xavier University, even when you don't know people you know people. It is like you are a part of an extended family. So I didn't really know Trent in school, but I knew him from a distance. He seemed like an okay guy. It was not until my interaction with him at homecoming that I realized that he is a fataphobe. 

I recall talking to Tortilla a few years back about fataphobes. I define them as people who hate or are disgusted by fat people. Oddly enough, I had not had a lot of experience with them. Sure, there had been people that didn't like me, but I always felt like that was because I was loud and had a really bad habit of saying wild, off the wall ish. Then my childhood friend Teensy got a boyfriend that was always weird around me. I didn't get the feeling that he didn't like me. It almost felt like he was afraid of me or something. 

"Yeah, he is a fataphobe," Teensy said regrettably at a dinner she was holding at her apartment. "I'm sorry he's being weird." I guess I should have been offended, but I was intrigued. I mean, he was VISABLY awkward around me. A couple of times during the dinner I thought that he was going to scream! At one point, I reached for a condiment bottle that was near his arm and he abruptly jumped to his feet and pretended to have to go to the bathroom. It was comedy! 

Fast forward to last weekend. I was at a homecoming event and saw Trent having a conversation with his ex-wife. 

Isn't that mature, I thought to myself, taking a seat next to them. There were about five feet between us. Now, he saw me walk over. He saw me sit down. Yet he did not speak. Now, if it's one thing I can not handle, it is rudeness. You speak when you see folks! That's just what you do! And I wasn't going to speak to him first, I'm the girl! 

What's this n*$ga's issue? I asked myself. But I stopped that line of negative mental questioning because my therapist warned me that thoughts like that are fruitless...before she dumped me. But she was right. Obviously, he didn't speak because he was in the middle of a conversation. DUH! Not a second after rationalizing this, he jumped to his feet and gave a bro hug and dap combo to this guy from our class. After some light chat with the guy, he sat down but turned himself in a manner that was strange and dare I say looked painful so that he didn't have to see me. My mouth dropped. What was that about?!

When he walked into the class tent at the tailgate the incident from the day before was still on my mind. Perhaps I would have thought I was trippin' if I had not watched him literally come in and speak to everyone else but me. Had I offended him at some point? I mean, when you often speak without thinking as I do, anything is possible. I just knew he was going to speak as he was about to leave the tent, but he actually sped up to try to get past me without my noticing. 

"Hey Trent!" I yelled so loudly that he had no choice but to stop. 

"Oh hey Holly!" he exclaimed as if he really hadn't seen me there. He was hella squirmy and antsy and off, and I had seen this same type of behavior before from Teensy's whack ex. It dawned on me: I was in the company of a real live fataphobe. 

Child, I wore Trent out with questions about his divorce and job and family and hobbies and anything else I could think of until he began to do this strange dance like he had to pee or something. He was beginning to sweat like Teensy's ex at the dinner party. I decided to let him go before he actually exploded, covering me in bloody, fataphobic bits. 

"It was good to see you Trent!" I said with a huge, fake smile. 

"You too!" he said, just as fake. 

A second later I turned around to see him collecting himself on the side of another tent, dry heaving. I smiled. It would have been funny if he would have hurled. Ass hole. 

Homecoming Post 5: No Socials and the Flashback (part 2)

Friday at around 6pm- Admittedly, after spending Friday afternoon at the University Center, I was prepared to order food and go to bed. However, I just didn't come to New Orleans to nap. So I slowly got ready to go to the Homecoming Day Party. Sadly, by the time I got there, it was nighttime. 

The venue was really, really cute. What wasn't cute was the amount of marijuana smoke in the air. I know that everyone smokes today, yay legalization, but I HATE the smell. It gets in my hair and it's gross. On top of that, there were a lot of younger students/alumni there and for the past few years I have done everything possible to avoid young people in my social space. I am like a 70-year-old woman. I only go to movie matinees. If I go to the mall, it's at 10am on a Sunday. Wherever they are, there tends to be pot smoke, gunfire, fighting, and exposed ass cheeks. No thanks. 

I saw a few people from my class that I knew and had a few chit-chats. I even ran into Britain, who was lit off of cocktails and marijuana edibles. I asked for one, he extended his hand to me in offering, but I thought better of it. The only thing that was going to keep me going that night was an injection of Red Bull into my forearm and someone taping my eyelids open. 

Just as I was about to get up and leave, No Socials walked down the steps beside me with a blunt in his hand. 

"Hey!" he said happily. 

"Hey, did you find your people?" I asked him. For some reason, I had the impression that he was alone at homecoming and had decided to come last minute. 

"Yeah, just like you remembered me, other people remembered me," he said walking about eight feet in front of me. He stood there, lean like a pole, and faced the direction of the DJ. He then pulled out a lighter and lit his blunt, bobbing his head to the music. Watching him exhale a large cloud of smoke,  the stomach pain came again, this time a little more apparent. 

"Ouch," I murmured to myself, taking out my phone to get a Lyft ride back to my Air B&B. I am a trust your gut type of person, but there was really no issue that I can think of. Listen yall, repressed memories are real. 

Homecoming Post 4: Anxieties

I am so happy that I went to my 15-year college reunion, but I had a lot of anxiety about going beforehand. Right until the day that I was supposed to leave to go, I was thinking about staying home. Something about seeing the people that I came of age with after not seeing them for a long time makes me want to roll under the bed and hide. I have an issue with comparing my life to that of others, which is truly a recipe for failure. Luckily, I would not have gotten a refund on my Air B&B if I hadn't gone or I would have missed out on a good time. I hear that other people have anxieties too. They have the dignity not to talk about them. Luckily, that's not me. Next year, if you are considering missing out on your homecoming because of your anxieties, just take a gander at mine, then pack and leave, knowing you are not the most neurotic person in the room. 

My Weight

I am fat. I was fat when I started college at 18. This is not news. What may be news, however, is how fat I have gotten since. It's a bit ridiculous. And embarrassing. And dangerous. And shocking. And incredible. These are the adjectives I am choosing, so I was very nervous about what my judgemental ass peers were going to say. Thank God fakeness is real. I knew that no one would say anything to my face. That didn't stop me from daydreaming about arriving at the school only for everyone to point at me and scream.

I'm Broke

So many of the people I went to school with are rich or on the bus to get there. I would get on the bus too, but I don't have enough change. 

The Old Me

Once upon a time before life happened and before I decided to try to be more like Jesus, I could have been perceived as somewhat of a jerk. It depends on who you ask. I was the worse kind too. I was the kind that could dish it but could not take it. I would not be surprised if there was still someone out there with an ax to grind that they would so beautifully chop my head off with at homecoming.  

Chin Hairs

I am scared that I will soon be growing a beard. I see the tiny pores under my chin that look like they are fixin' to sprout hairs. This keeps me awake at night. I spent most of my spare time as a child plucking my grandma's chin hairs. I am too young! 

These are just a few of the anxieties that pollute my mind. Do you feel better? Thought you would.  

Homecoming Post 3: The Mystery of Alderado Avacado

Whenever I get a call from Lady Chatsalot, I know that I am going to laugh my keister off. That, and get served a cup of piping hot tea! Lady Chatsalot is one of those girls that I knew in school, but we didn't get to really know each other until we graduated. She always has her finger on the pulse of what is going on with everything and everyone. And she is hilarious! 

"Oh girl, guess who I saw at the club!" she said, shaking her head into her computer camera. 

"Who?!" I asked. 

"Alderado Avacado!"

I thought about it for a moment before jumping out of my skin. "Do you mean -----?!"

She nodded. "Yes, girl!"

"What was he doing at the club?"

"I don't know, but when I talked to him, he said that I would probably be seeing more of him out and about."

"Girl, shut up! Does that mean that he isn't with Splitz anymore?"

"I don't know."

In college, I was so far out of Alderado Avacado's league that I don't think he knew who I was! He was just so handsome and charming and very much with Splitz, one of those girls that is so hot that you know that even in her 80s she is going to be fine! I saw him at the 10-year reunion at the club. I looked up and he was right beside me and I said, "-----!" He looked down and smiled, that million-dollar pearly white smile. God! What a dream boat!

We must have talked him up, because at the tailgate, while I was chatting with someone, I noticed two of the girls at the tent freeze. 

"What is going on?" I asked Sweets, one of my favorite girls from college. 

"Girl, Alderado Avacado just passed by."

  Again, I needed a minute. It is always weird to hear him referred to by his real name. "You mean -----?!"

She nodded with a smile. I mean, all the girls were crazy about this guy! 

"I don't know if he is divorced, but he is always in Cutie's face," Savannah said a couple of days later when I brought it up. Hmmm. So he is divorced, right? Maybe?

Let's be clear, I have no chance of ever getting with Alderado Avacado if he's divorced. For me, he is kind of like the lottery: I have no intention of playing, but I will tune in to the news to see what the jackpot is. And let's be clear, he is a jackpot. During the drive back to Atlanta, I wondered what it must be like to be wanted like that and know it! The things I could do with that type of power! I definitely wouldn't be paying my own bills, that's for damn sure. 

As for the status of Alderado Avacado, it is still a mystery, but the blood is in the water and the sharks are very much circlinng. But Splitz doesn't have to worry about me. I cain't swim. 

Homecoming Post 2- No Socials and the Flashback (part 1)

Last Friday around 1pm- Me, Aunty and Zay arrived at Xavier's Campus. It was buzzing with excited energy from students and alumni alike. It was a beautiful sight. A lot of laughing. A lot of hugging. A lot of people head-to-toe in Xavier merch. We went up to the bookstore which was crowded with people rummaging through Xavier tees and hats. My aunt and nephew went to go look at some items and I stood there, taking in the scene. However, I very quickly found myself in the middle of a number of Deltas wearing bedazzled tees that read "I am Fall '93 Delta Sigma Theta". Because of a very tragic situation that happened between me and a Delta 15 years ago (who still stands as one of only two people I have ever had to block on Facebook) I sometimes feel uneasy amidst the crimson tide, so I split. I wandered over to a room that I had no business being in and copped a squat. This room happened to be the press area for J. Alphonse Nicholson from P-Valley, who is a client of BOSS, one of my old classmates who is always calling shots and making moves. He said I could sit there as well as Aunty and Zay when they came around. Thank God! My feet were killing me. It pays to know powerful people in high places. 

Anywho, I was sitting there, minding my own business when a tall, handsome man peaked his head in the door. 

"Do you remember me?" he asked. 

"No Socials?" I asked. 

"Yep!" 

I couldn't believe it! I hadn't said his name out loud in over 10 years. I asked him what he was up to. He said that he does something with money, who knows? 

"Do you ever marry that girl?" I asked him, referring to the PYT he used to date when we were in school. 

"Which one?" he asked with a serious face. 

I shook my head. I guess that's a no. 

"Can I take your picture?" I asked, taking out my phone.

"Sure, but you can't post it," he said. And I am thinking to myself, Why would I want it other than to post it? To have as a keepsake?

I took the pic and we said our goodbyes. I looked at it. Man, he essentially looked the same. He was like a year older than me but looked five years younger! Still thin. No gray hair. He hadn't aged a day! That was pleasant, I thought to myself, even though I had a warning pain in my stomach. My gut is always warning me, but I couldn't imagine why it was this time. No Socials was cool! It's amazing what memories you can suppress if you try hard enough. 

Homecoming Post 1: Thirsty- The Story of 37 Savage

Everyone has qualities about themselves that they ignore and don't want to deal with. You may not be good with money. You may be selfish. I, sadly, am secretly thirsty. And unfortunately, this thirst is accompanied by a vibrant imagination that I use to daydream about elaborate...situations with men I went to college with. It's a disease really. Looking back, I was thirsty in college but there was no term for it then. I had a laundry list of guys that I was thirsty for, but one of my favorites was Blank Man. 

Admittedly, the first thing that attracted me to Blank Man was that he was obviously slept on. He was in college and he is now. And I am most definitely slept on. See the connection? I sometimes casually ask different girlfriends about what they think about him and they all respond with a heavy spirit of indifference. Of blah. Of whatever. More than one of them has said that they don't think he is cute which is an out-and-out lie! He is literally tall and handsome! I don't get it! 

Once he became Greek, I knew that he was going to become a nightmare and that groupies were going to swarm him like flies on poop. This always happens to boys after they cross, but it didn't happen to him. He became Greek and it was almost like girls forgot it happened as soon as it did. I would go fan girl inside whenever I saw him in his line jacket on the yard. He was adorable! Again, other girls seemed unenthused, stepping over him to get to the hottest, sexiest womanizer with a fresh fade. 

Well, flashback to the Xavier Homecoming Tailgate. I sat on the couch in my class's tent, seat twerking with Big Homie Sans to some bounce music when I saw Blank Man walk in, hugging everybody and dapping everybody up. I sat up straight. My internal thirstmeter slowly dialed up to the rhythm of a Big Freeda baseline. There he was: tall, dark, and handsome. And fatter. And visibly older. And mildly awkward. YUMMY! 

"Hey Blank Man!" I said in an overly feminine voice that made Big Homey Sans raise her professionally arched eyebrow. 

"Hey, what's up Holly?" he asked. 

"Nothing much. How have you been?" I asked, trying to keep the thirst under control. 

"Good, good."

 Are you married?" I asked. Yikes. Talk about not playing it cool. 

Cool your jets sex pot, Big Homey Sans said to me with her eyes. 

"No, I'm not," he said. He didn't pick up on the thirst because men are stupid. 

"Oh okay," I said. He moved his head back with wide eyes with a quickness that scared me. Sigh. He picked it up that time which is odd, because that time, I hadn't meant to be thirsty. I had used too much kaaaay in my okay.  He was standing and I was sitting, and he looked down at me with this look of confusion and shock and disbelief. Are you...flirting with me? his eyes asked. He looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or scream. 

No way! What is flirting? Is that a real thing? Use it in a sentence, I said with my eyes. 

Big Homie Sans shook her head, sipping on her cocktail and crossing her legs. 

The innocence in my lying eyes brought him back down to earth and he smiled. 

"It was good to see you Blank Man," I said with a wide, Girl Scout-esque smile. 

"It was good seeing you too!" Quick platonic hug. Friendly smile. 

I turned and looked to Big Homie Sans. She chuckled, nibbling on ice chips. 

It doesn't pay to be thirsty no, I said to myself, happy to have Toosie slid out of another potentially embarrassing situation. Next time I go to the tailgate, I will bring water. 

Homecoming

So this year marks 15 years since my college graduation and I have decided to go to my homecoming, as I did for my 10-year anniversary. On the one hand, I am excited. Excited to see old friends, excited to see New Orleans, excited to go on a trip. On the other hand, the very idea of seeing my peers makes me want to hurl. I'm not ashamed to admit that I am obsessed with my old college peers. I follow them on social media and take in their lives like junk food. Me on Instagram on any given day is the equivalent of eating 22 Big Macs back-to-back, inhaling without chewing images of weddings, gender reveals, promotions, home and car purchases, partying, traveling, etc. Sure, I understand that social media is simply an endless stream of someone's best moments. No one is posting images of eviction notices, being served divorce papers, or being diagnosed with a disease. However, I can't help but feel behind. I am 2.5 years short of 40 and single. The only thing I own outright is my debt. I am just now getting a MA degree. Once I receive it I will finally get to live at some standard of living...in middle age. A part of me wants to attend in a disguise but I have been told that my voice, figure, walk, laugh, and general energy is very identifiable. Everyone will know I am me, in a mask and black hoodie, trying to tiptoe through the crowd. I have seen the advertisements for the club parties that will be taking place. Honestly, the very idea of going to a club and standing for hours while watching people twerk makes me want to go lay down someplace. I'm hoping that my anxiety melts away the moment I get some gumbo in me and hug someone I haven't seen in years. If it doesn't, I can always post up in my Air B&B, watching my friends enjoy homecoming live through their Instastories. We'll call that a seclusion and chill. 

Love and the Pessimistic

I would say that since I was a wee lad, I have been able to see through a lot of the doodoo when it comes to love. I have vivid memories of teachers reading stories like Snow White and Cinderella and me laughing out loud. I was the 5-year-old girl that rolled her eyes at Disney movies. Never ever ever did I think that there was some ripped hottie on a horse coming to rescue me. So you can imagine how shocked I was going to college and realizing that there were young women who actually drank this Kool-Aid, basing their real adult love lives off of children's cartoons. The shock only grew as I entered my 30s where otherwise logical friends were telling me that not only did they believe that the fairytale was real, but that it was something they deserved! Now you tell me, how nutso is that?

You can call me a love pessimist and I would have to agree. Over the years, I have prided myself on this. I have friends who also value this quality in me, for I can see the love train wreck coming from miles away. So you tell me why that at almost 40, I feel myself slowly and slightly buying into the relationship bull like a toddler in a princess dress?

The change in me began when I started going to church. I entered the sanctuary believing that there is not someone for everyone and that only the most lucky of us get to live our lives happily with someone else. Now, one year as a Christian, I find myself crossing my fingers for a soulmate like the rest of the single ladies at the alcohol-free singles mixer, hoping Mr. Right decided to drop into a church dance. 

Ugh, that whole last paragraph is embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as how big of a fan girl I have become of shows like Married At First Sight and Love is Blind. I find myself on the edge of my seat, heavily invested in the relationships of people I don't know, praying out loud that their relationships work. For if there is hope for strangers who got engaged after never seeing each other, there is hope for an inherently negative person like me, right? 

No matter how hard I try to get rid of it, there is faith the size of a mustard seed that one day happiness will come knocking at my door. I want to get rid of it, not wanting to be disappointed by yet something or someone else, but this sliver of hope continues to burn eternal out of my reach. Let it be known that there is no bigger buzz kill than hopefulness. 

Optimism

I turned 37 at the end of 2021 and I have one thing to say: I think that I am fresh out of optimism. I gotta be honest, my cup didn't runneth over with it to begin with. Never really been a cup half full type of gal. But I find that as a depressed, overweight, single, Black woman I had to at least pretend to be optimistic for the greater good. You see, me and all my single homegirls are all participating involuntarily in a game of Jenga, and if one of us so much as looks like we are not keeping hope alive, we're all going to fall. Better yet, we are in the Squid Games. If one of us so much as exerts an inkling of negative energy by saying something as mild as, "Maybe I will just be that single, rich aunty," that big plastic girl thing will turn around and shoot us all in the face. And I don't want to get shot. So I continue to fight the good fight, encouraging my homies when needed, and to do so, I have to ignore some hard truths. We are sliding on the banana peel towards 40. Maybe we will be single forever. Maybe those who want kids won't have them. Perhaps we will never be rich or even as financially secure as we want to be. I hate to say it but perhaps we are doing ourselves a disservice by remaining as optimistic for these goals as we are. Perhaps it is time to sit down all adult-like and begin to polish up our plan Bs. And we have to have one right? Because talking to some of my friends I find that they are so committed to some of these life goals that I am scared that if they don't come to fruition they will just stand up and explode into a million little pieces. And maybe (Big plastic girl things shoots me at my computer, blood splattering on the screen).