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).
