The Case of the 40s

I don't know where I thought I was going to be at 40 years old, but I'm positive it's not here. And by here, of course, I mean nowhere doing nothing. 

When I was in my early - mid 20s, I used to throw myself hotel room birthday parties. I was so excited about them! I got such a kick out of planning them and figuring out what I was going to wear. If I could go back in time, I would tell myself to live it up, because sugar would go to sh*t, literally for the next 15 years. 

The other day, I had a dream that I was panicked, planning for a party at a big mansion. I was running around trying to get food and drinks for my guests, and I hired Kid Rock to do the photography and videography. I used to love him in high school. Not so much now. I think that we can agree that he's a little different now. Anywho, I woke up and figured that the dream was telling me that I wanted to have a birthday party for my 40th. 

On social media, I have seen my friends celebrate their 40ths in a whole bunch of fun and cute ways. International trips. Girls nights. Cruises. Family fun days. Spa weekends. Elaborate dinners. You name it! The last time I attempted to throw a movie night for my birthday, I invited a whole bunch of folks and only one person showed up. Luckily, it was one of my good friends. We drank sparkling apple juice and talked over tacos. It was a nice night, but a painful reminder that my friends either don't like me or don't give a crap. I would like to have a party because it would be nice to be excited about something, but if no one showed, I'd be crushed and disappointed, and I can't risk that. I am already crushed and disappointed, just living day-to-day. 

Right now, I am leaning towards getting an AirBnB for a weekend, turning out all the lights, and laying face first into a bed pillow, groaning. That may sound depressing, but it is actually one of my favorite things to do. I will keep you posted on my plans, or lack thereof. 

Mommy

I've been missing my mommy of late. I always miss her, but lately, I have been longing to talk to her so badly. 

Oddly enough, talking to her when she was alive could irritate me like no other. She was always giving me unasked for advice which drove me up the wall! But I was also just getting to know her. We butted heads my whole childhood because I didn't like her mooching leech of a boyfriend. As a young adult, I no longer had to see her deal with him, which left room for us to acquaint ourselves with each other. Now she's gone and I find myself needing to talk to her.

If she had not been cremated, I'd totally be advocating for a Pet Cemetery situation just so we could chat before she'd try to kill me. In this case, I'm sad this this is not a scene from a Stephen King fantasy. I no longer wish to be sad. Time for bed. 

Youth pt. 2

It feels like me and the women in my life turned 39, the universe was alerted, and she sent us an array of crap. The whole thing has me thinking about the meaning of youth. 

As you know, 39 brought me endometrial polyps I had to have plucked out. That was emotional and incredibly stressful for a woman whose anxiety is already so naturally high that I could shoot to the moon on it. A college friend told me that she has already had her mammogram, something that should be set for next year, because our good friend's wife was diagnosed with breast cancer at 39. 

For some of my other girlfriends, the race to have a baby has never been so real, especially for my uncoupled friends that have to weigh waiting for a man with getting a donor. Today, my 39-year-old doctor friend died in hospice care from a disease she wasn't even old enough to get screened for! 

Is the universe trying to tell me and my soon-to-be middle-aged friends to cherish life and your health because you never know what trick life is going to pull out of its hat? Okay! Message received. Now can you please keep all my girls well and alive?

It doesn't work like that. 

When I was a kid, I'd hear my grandma on the phone giving and receiving updates on sick friends and friends who had passed. The whole thing would go over my head, now it's at my feet. For lack of a better word, it's scary. 

Is this to be life from now on? Scared for my wellbeing and that of those I love? I guess this is yet another disgusting part of adulting. My grandma would tell me to pray. I think I will. 

Youth

When you are young, people will tell you, "Do it while you are young." " Enjoy it while you're young". And the people who really know what they are talking about will tell you, "You are only young once" because that is, truly, the long and short of it. But no one will tell you that you are thinking all wrong, as if your youth has an expiration date. 21 you are young. 41 you are not.

Every now and then someone you view as truly ancient will tell you that you are only as young as you feel. Okay. But you are also only as young as you are, and all of these things have to coexist in you as truth as you move and love and do what you do. I am learning what I find it hard to articulate to others: youth is not something you have but more like a shadow that moves with you. And just like a man that don't want you no more, she will begin to spiritually withdraw until the coast is clear to jump ship completely. And one day you wake up honey and you are you, minus that special something that excused you, that ran your operations system, that set your goal calendar. You are now a new you that you may or may not welcome, and no one, not even women, prepares women for this. 

One day, you are expected to just take out your First Aid kit and begin to treat the wounds youth left behind and begin to transition to the mature you, the senior you, that respects money, takes vitamins, and gives a sh%t! And don't be that old person who is haunted by youth traumas like financial stuff and love ailments. Life has time for you like it has time for itself, and you go from a work in progress to a relic that hurts people's eyes. No one wants to see you until there is something to see. And to think, just 20 years ago, you were dancing on a table someplace. You will remember these times until you die with pristine precision, which is both beautiful and cruel. What we are talking about here is the equivalent of catching a firefly in your hands. The bulb is flickering. The end. 

The Chase

With all the health stuff I have been dealing with, I have found myself reaching out to my friends for support. And the truth of the matter is, some of them are not interested in being present. It just is what it is. Yet, on the other hand, my church family has been consistent, checking in on me and sending me prayers and well wishes. So, the other night while I sat in the dark groaning, I asked myself why I am chasing friends that aren't interested when there are people proving that they want to be a part of my life? Why is my default always trying to cling to the unavailable? Talk about trauma and damage! These and other questions to be answered as I try to navigate life. Stay tuned.

Hysterectomy/Mysterectomy

I called the doctor's office as soon as I got an alert that my test results came back from my biopsy. I don't even think that they were aware that they had come in yet. I was really high strung, seeing that I am not a medical professional and had just been forwarded a couple of pages of things that might as well have been written in Spanish. The doctor went over my results with me, it was good news, but an eye now has to be kept on my jay-jay. He said later on, if there is still an issue, I may have to get a hysterectomy. Of course, this sent me into a spiral. 

In the past, I have said that I wanted one because I could not deal with the stress of worrying about my lady parts. But when I heard the doctor say that word out of his mouth, I lost it. And unbelievably, I was not worried about my body or possibly having to have another surgery. I was not even worried about my ability to have kids, for I have never wanted to be a mom. What I was worried about (embarrassingly) is if a man would want me with half of my plumbing gone. This would make me an old lady! Would I even still be a girl? Would this make my insides feel like razor blades and bottle caps?

Child, do you know what is even more stressful than worrying about your 'gina? Worrying about a man and what men want and never having one and blah, blah, blah. Along time ago, I figured that I was fat and that finding a man that would really, truly love me may be a long shot. And as much as I would like to be partnered, I thought that I was clear with myself about how my 50/50 chance was more like slim to none. Yet, when he said the 'h' word, everything came bubbling up to the surface and guys, I was so, so sad. I have had a minute to sit with this. Now I am mad. 

I am mad that at almost 40 I have not been able to shake off this "What about men?" mentality. It's like a second skin! Whether I want to admit it or not, my whole life has been a serious of failed attempts to paint the peacock to get a guy's attention which is a real waste! I could have spent that time with loved ones, doing something I really enjoy. Or spent that time getting preventative vaginal exams! The other day, I was talking to a doctor about my health, and all I could think about was this hypothetical, may never arrive man. 

I know. Pathetic. 

Dr. Hottie and the Biopsy

I'm not going to lie: when I was dropped off early at the hospital for my procedure, I stood on the steps and cried. I was scared, overwhelmed, and alone. I knew that I was going to cry, but I didn't think it would be that early. 

"Are you okay?" the security guard asked. I nodded, but he walked over to me anyway. I rolled my eyes. If men aren't ignoring me, they are bothering me when I am trying to have a private moment. I wiped my eyes and followed him inside where a man with a crutch was already waiting. We were the early birds, waiting for 6am to go up to get prepped for our surgeries. I sat there listening to Glorilla, praying that things would go my way. I had never had any type of surgery or anesthesia, and I was mortified of not waking up. My fears were not calmed when I was told I was sent to the wrong area and that I had not paid money I had a receipt for paying. By this time, my mind was all over the place. If one more oopsie was made, I was going to make a run for it! 

By the time I was checked into preop, I looked a hot mess! Sadness and worry was graffitied all over my face. I looked tired and upset. Looking in the mirror after giving my urine sample, it dawned on me that I looked the worst that I had ever seen myself! But the party was just beginning. I got changed into the backless gown that no one likes and sat still while a woman rubbed by back and butt down with antiseptic wipes. Then Nurse Heavy Hand rubbed my right arm down so hard with an alcohol cotton ball that she bruised me. How hard to you have to be rubbing me to bruise me with a piece of cotton? She couldn't find my vein. My left arm looked like a pin cushion, only for Nurse Tiny Little to find my vein on the right arm and get me with one prick. Thank. God. 

Once my doctor arrived, I was relieved and ready to rock. She came with the resident I had been seeing during my visits, which made me more comfortable. I almost allowed my shoulders to relax a little before a tall, brown brotha with beautiful eyebrows and lashes showed up at the foot of my bed. He was introduced as Dr. Hottie, another resident that would be helping out with the surgery. 

Oh no, I thought to myself. I looked like SH&T! Of course I did. When I was in high school and had bad asthma attacks where I couldn't breathe, my respiratory therapists always looked like they had hopped out of an Abercrombie ad. I was beyond embarrassed. 

However, the humiliation didn't come until I got into the operating room and needed help getting on the operating table with Dr. Hottie right there. I could have died! My butt cheeks were exposed and ashy. They don't allow you to wear lotion on the day of a surgery! I would have done anything for just a squirt of Nivea. 

Once I was in recovery, I looked over at the nurse's station and he was sitting there, working, looking good. I could tell he was fine, even with his face mask on. He even looked like he smelled good. I could feel myself smiling goofily at him and then it dawned on me: THIS FINE MAN HAS SEEN MY VAGINA! If I wasn't completely out of it, I would have screamed!

However, once everything did wear off and I was getting ready to go home, I thanked Dr. Hottie and told him I was sorry if I was acting weird. I just wasn't expecting a man in the surgery. He said it was okay and smiled. I have to tell you, I felt something in that moment. But I cannot be sure if it was a sensual connection or post-surgical vaginal pain. All I know is that next time, if there has to be a next time, I am sneaking a travel container of lotion into preop in my bra. 

Skeez Louise pt 2: Chocolate Chuck and the Hypothetical D Pic

You may or may not know this about me, but I LOVE a good mystery; a good who done it and why. I like to swish the puzzle pieces of a situation around and study them until they all fit and make sense. I gobble up mystery novels like kitty nip. For me, there is mystery in everything, even in the lives of people I know. Scrolling through Instagram, the mysteries fly through my timeline and slap me in the face. How can a guy from my old neighborhood drive a Tesla, but need to create a GoFundMe fundraiser to bury his dad? How can a very petite girl I knew from my elementary school after school program be shapeless her whole life yet, after a trip to the Dominican Republic, now have a behind the size of Texas? And how can Chocolate Chuck's wife, Nerdy Nadine vanish? She's been scrubbed from his IG, along with any tangible proof that he ever had kids. Even the picks of his international vacations, that he never went on with Nadine, have been trashed, and replaced with promos for his business. Could Purple Reign have been right? Could their union, which once sprang from the springs of love at Xavier University, have decayed and fallen from the vine? And if it has, what is the most appropriate, sensitive, considerate, respectful way to see what that D do? 

Let's rewind back to about 2006, back when my sweet, fun, yet loopy and dopey friend Ditzy Diane had engaged in some XXX activities with Chuck. I mean she went on and on about it. Titanic didn't get as many rave reviews as she gave that D! She was literally clapping her hands and laughing as she told me about it. If her goal was to make me jealous, she had achieved it. I remember looking over my shoulder at Chuck and Nadine on the other side of the cafeteria. I thought to myself that if I ever got skinny and pretty (because I am NOT Chuck's type) and if he wasn't with a woman who could crack my neck with her bare hands, I would shoot my shot. And I wouldn't need to go all-the-way like Ditzy Diane. A little peek would do it for me. Okay, so I am in no way skinny, but my spirit is telling me that this may be the best time. He obviously is in some type of a midlife transition, and I am suffering from medical related dehydration.

"Oh yeah, you can get a pic, no problem," Risky Business assured me. I tell you, it is truly dangerous to have a friend that will support you completely, even when you are being crazy. "And it won't be as hard as you think it is." But you see, Risky thinks that we should wait until homecoming when folks are feeling frisky and walk away with a bunch of D picks, not just the one. I'm good with just the one though. 

If I am being honest, it wasn't just Diana's review that has me curious. I slipped up and saw him shirtless on another friend's InstaLive which is what I think really kicked things in gear a couple of years ago. And now that I have been OnlyFans tricked and am scared of my test results, this desire to see D has taken over me! It's embarrassing and ridiculous...but nice work if I can get it. 

My anxiety can sometimes cause me to act impulsively and stupidly, so I am going to sit on this deep, jaw-flexing desire until I know what move to make. Plus, can't be all hoochy like in this. Where would the mystery be in that?

Mean Girls

My nephew is the coolest little dude I know. I am not just saying this because I love him. He is funny and creative. But I was just as perplexed as he was when he walked in my room moping because his friend in his kindergarten class, we will call her G1, called him ugly! My heart sank. He looked so sad, and I was furious. First of all, he is not ugly! Second of all, I was triggered. I had the same face all the way through high school when my peers would say something mean about me. He then said he didn't want to go to school because of it which really pissed me off! We all know the stats: if little Black boys don't develop a love for school early, they will probably drop out before finishing. I couldn't stand the thought of it! 

"You are not ugly," I assured him. He looked like he believed me about as much as I believed my grandma when she would tell me I wasn't ugly. He probably was thinking what I used to think which was, "If I am not ugly, why would they say I am?" I explained to him that some people say mean things and that he should not let what they say get to him because what they say isn't true. I could tell he wasn't buying it. 

Then, just yesterday morning, I put out his new outfit for him to wear to school that he was excited about. Yet, after he put his pants on, he was not happy. 

"I don't want to wear these," he complained. 

"Why not? They are new!"

"G2 made fun of my other pants," he said, shoulders slumped. 

All of a sudden, it was 1992 again, and I was sitting in class trying not to hear the kids laughing at the clothes that I had on and again, I was furious!

"No one is going to like my pants!" he whined. 

"It is not about if everyone else likes your clothes, it is about if you like your clothes," I told him, stuffing him into his coat to go to the bus stop. Wow. That one was one of my grandma's greatest hits. 

Then I thought about my mother. She was always encouraging me to be tough and stand up for myself, and I just wasn't. Eventually, as much as I loved school, I hated to go. Hated the way I looked. Hated being seen. And when that got overwhelming, I became just as mean as everyone else.

As dramatic as it may sound, bullying is a big reason why I didn't want kids. I didn't want to have a kid that would just be a punching bag for the other kids, or worse, be the kid that was doing the punching. Bullying was a HUGE part of my childhood that I didn't want my kid to experience to the point that I didn't want one at all. Now here is my 5-year-old nephew, learning about the sting of cruelty as we have raised him with love and kindness. It's not fair!

"Tell him, 'F$ck dem kids!" P suggested. As crazy as that would be for a child to say to another child, it was honestly what I was thinking and what I have gone back and told childhood me as she got roasted on the playground by obnoxious little a-holes. 

I think that I am going to call his teacher. This is something that neither my grandma nor mother would have done. But there has to be a middle ground between being too passive and being too harsh. For me, I feel like that is adult intervention. I'm not going to let the kids burn my nephew's self-esteem as they did mine so many years ago. 

Skeez Louise pt. 1: The Story of Holls and OnlyFans

Tomorrow, I have my medical procedure and I am really, really, really scared. I think that this may be the most scared that I have been, ever. I have told my friends this, and they have given me the typical "Oh Holly is being dramatic again," response, which has made my fear and anxiety skyrocket to new heights. And I find that when I am scared, I default to my old reliable coping mechanisms: eating nonsense and looking at hunky guys on Instagram. So, the night before last, as I ate some gummy bears, I allowed myself to go down an Instahole, looking at every post of a man that we will call DreadHunk. Child...when I tell you that I was invested! If you have never seen him on IG, you have seen men like him. He's a tall, dark-skinned man with dreadlocks that likes to cook and clean his apartment baby oiled and wearing a towel. He is a total tease, and just like the thurstbots in his comments, I needed to see more. So, high on horny and fructose corn syrup, I went to his linktr.ee page and found that he has an OnlyFans page. I know. The story only gets worse from here. 

I am aware that I may be the only person on earth that had never been on OnlyFans. As the good Christian I tell myself that I am, I recognized this site for what it is: the devil's playground. Yet the other night, chewing a fist full of gummy bears and hypnotized by DreadHunk, this didn't seem to matter. Guys, I was saturated in adrenalin. Like a skeez, I sat in my room in the dark, my face illuminated by my cellphone light, trying to start an account. I comfortably slid into the sexual underbelly, putting my card information in, literally thirsty to see DreadHunk's content. Long story short, my phone glitched, the info didn't go through, I got spooked and deleted my account. I had an OnlyFans profile for 15 minutes. Scared at how far I had slid down the pike, I put my phone down and went to sleep. I was done with the nasty stuff...until the next day, which was yesterday. 

Yesterday, my anxiety was even higher than it was the day before, which I didn't think was possible. I cried on and off all day, and I could feel God telling me to turn to Him for comfort and relief. Yet, after coming across DreadHunk's latest post, I slid on sin right back to his OnlyFans. This time I subscribed, paid, and went to DreadHunk's page. Confused, I looked at his uploaded content. It was even more PG than what was on IG. What? I asked myself. Then I looked at the comments on his profile of women letting him know that they had sent him a "tip" and were excited to receive their pic or video or whatever. A tip? A. Tip? A tip? A TIP?! I swear, audacity must be on sale someplace! Have single women driven to OnlyFans for action not already paid the price?! For the second time in less than 48 hours, I deleted my account. As a punishment, I now have to wear the scarlet letter of OnlyFans being on my banking statement. 

So, I got duped. Looking back on OnlyFans, I figured I got what I got for being gross and thirsty. It was then that I saw Chocolate Chuck's page and realized that I am not thirsty. I am, in fact, dehydrated. 

Scared Stiff

So, what we know for sure is that God doesn't put us through anything we can't handle. I then deduce from this that there is a reason for everything we endure. I am choosing to believe that God is going to petrify me so thoroughly with life stuff that at some point I won't be able to be scared ever again. That day, however, was not the other day.

Sitting in the doctor's office waiting room, I am scared. Very scared. I'm so scared that I was not even having my usual pity party I'm-so-alone-in-this thoughts. I'm was just sitting here calmly, scared.

Waiting to be called for my appointment, I thought about a big museum, the types they show in movies. I envisioned children on a field trip being led through a dinosaur exhibit until they make it to me. I am frozen, immortalized in a maxi dress and ballet flats, sitting against a piece of wall from my room. 

"This is Holly Clay from 2024. As you can see, she has been fully preserved. The pressures of going through life a lone and panicked literally left her scared stiff. Her family donated her body to science as a warning to future generations about going into middle age un-partnered."

The kids and their teachers would take pictures before moving on to a display called "Obsolete", where they would get to play in a pool of old phone books. 

At some point once I got home after my visit, I found myself hysterical. What else is new? I called my doctor, some friends, my mentor. Just when I thought I couldn't feel more alone, another situation proves me wrong. I didn't feel like I had anyone in the world. After three hours of tears, I finally went to sleep. My headache was splitting. I can't say I'm trying to be strong because I don't think I have any strength left. I'm totally pooped. As my medical team told me, I need to pray. More shit storms are on the way; this is the dinosaur in the room. 

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Risky Business (A Story About Coping)

The other night, I called one of my good girlfriends from college to see how she was doing. She has been having some problems trying to figure out the next move in her career. Actually, that sentence is an understatement. It has been a nightmare and through it all, she has been trying to balance looking for a gig with relaxing and having a social life. Again, this has not been easy, especially when you weigh how she has gone from being completely independent to having to live with her elderly parents. Like I said, a nightmare. So, when I called her, in an attempt to keep it light, I asked her about her dating life and that is when she gave me the scoop. Apparently, she has been meeting up with guys on Tinder, men that she does not know, to give them blow jobs. 

And just when you think you have heard it all. Admittedly, my eyes crossed when she told me this. But she was clear about not wanting to be judged and I didn't want to judge her...but I did have some questions; the primary question being WHY? Unbeknownst to me, she enjoys giving oral sex without anything in return. Although it can be work, she likes it. According to her, it also saves her some time. Once being introduced to a man's penis in this fashion, she can cut through a lot of the formalities and decide then and there if she wants to continue seeing the guy or moving towards having sex with them. If, through the oral encounter, she finds that they have a small penis or a penis that cannot maintain an erection, she puts them in the return to sender box and keeps moving. 

I sat silently on my end of the line as she used phrases like, "to completion" and "power dynamic". She also made it clear that she didn't want anything sexual in return from these guys not just because the pleasure of giving was enough, but also because she didn't feel like getting waxed. But she told me not to worry. Since her sexual activity has increased, she is getting STI tested every three months. To me, this somehow sounded both responsible and irresponsible. What if you catch something in the meantime in between time?

"I don't know," I said, taking a deep breath. "This sounds like risky business."

"Oh yeah, this is definitely high-risk behavior which is why I am getting tested more."

Emmm. Okay?

After hanging up with her, I thought about the things that we do, although at times irresponsible, to cope. Out of the heartache of having to refocus her career, my dear friend is tossing out BJs to losers. I eat fried foods and sugar. Many of my homegirls engage in retail therapy, and going to homecoming has shown me how many of my peers are heavy drinkers and smokers. By this time, we should all know that life is hard and can out-and-out suck! The goal is to try to get through without losing your mind or forming an addiction. But I know my friend will make it on to the other side of this, especially since she is optimistic about the 20-something co-ed that she is getting to know. A story for another time. 

To Kiss Perchance To Dream

I am lonely. 

I know, this isn't a newsflash. It's just that now my loneliness seems to be creeping into my dreams, the one place where I got a break from being brutally aware that I am single and torpedoing towards middle age. 

As you know, yesterday was the Super Bowl, and I could not have cared less. Football has never been my thing, but I do think the cheerleaders are cool and I wanted to see Usher perform. Unfortunately, football had to be played first, so I dozed off listening to my brother hoot and holler at the TV while scarfing down some of his homecooked wings. During that brief half of an hour that I was asleep I had an interesting dream. 

I dreamed that I was at a high school football game with Hunter, a boy that used to date my best friend Joyce in middle school. He was a grown-up version of the 12-year-old him. He was tall and dark like I remember, and his gold-framed glasses gave him away immediately. My consciousness seemed to be crashing a conversation we had already been having in the dreamsphere. 

"Kiss me!" I begged him as we sat in the stands. "Please kiss me!" 

"No," he said, shaking his head in annoyance. 

"Okay, well can I kiss you?" I compromised. 

"No!" He was getting agitated because he was trying to watch the game. He had on a polo with the collar popped and some khakis. Man, I was so into him in middle school, even though he was dating Joyce. Even then, I had a thing for blerds, especially blerds that for some reason wanted to be thugs. 

Through my dream, I could feel that the desire to kiss him was incredibly strong. I sat next to him on the bleachers, just staring at his lips. 

"Stop being thirsty!" my old middle school friend Kayla shouted at me. Kayla would have totally said that to me in real life. And I knew she was right, but I kept staring at Hunter, hoping he would break and turn and French me. It didn't happen. I woke up in time for the half-time show. 

This is the most aggressive of a series of dreams that I have had like this over the past few months. Usually a man from man's past, like from college or something, pops up into one of my dreams. I am usually freaking out about life and they hug me or hold my hand. The one where dude held my hand, I'm not going to lie, I woke up crying. And I know that dreams aren't supposed to mean what they seem like they mean at face value, but this seems quite self-explanatory: I'M LONELY! 

Even with this being the case, a part of me believes that being single is better than being with someone. IG makes relationships seem like they suck. For now, I have to settle for begging for affection from someone I'm not with in my dreams. 

Peeing- A Hate Story

Going to the bathroom is the bane of my existence. I hate that I always have to go when I'm doing something. I hate that my blood pressure meds have me going 6000 times a day. I hate going in the middle of the night. And can anyone think of anything riskier than having to go in public? You never know what you are going to get. I got so tired of carrying around just-in-case disinfectant materials that I made a life rule: no pottying outside the house. Not even when I visit someone's house. I hate to be a tinkle snob, but not even my friends have bathrooms that meet my expectations. 

Lately, I have been asking myself a very serious question: is there really shame in turning to diapers at 39? I have to admit that I am seduced by the idea of all I could get done if I could go from a thousand bathroom breaks to just a couple of pamper changes. I had an elderly substitute teacher in high school, Ms. Rudie, who wore a diaper. I know this because you could see it through her khakis. It made her look like she had a BBL. On top of this, her diaper would crinkle when she walked. And we all would laugh about it. Looking back, I bet her life was incredibly effective. She would put her dipe-dipe on in the morning, teach all day, and not even have to think about to worry about a toilet until the evening. Talk about saving time! 

It was brought to my attention that a handsome, single, well-built man may not want to date a woman who openly and proudly wears an elder Huggy. I get it. But at the same time, I have to ask myself, So what? It's not like the odds are in my favor in this anyway. I have been unlucky in love since Kindergarten when the little boy I was crushing on walked over and kicked over my Lego house. Anyway, Katt Williams told us the scoop: dudes are out here wearing man units! Do men really have the right to judge women anymore? I'm going to go on ahead and say no. 

Honestly, I think that the one thing that keeps me from going all Always Discreet is the price. Buying the supplies for the month would seriously eat into my snack budget, which I think that we all can agree is a non-negotiable. It would be cheaper to pee my pants every day and take a luxury limo service to and from the laundromat. Yet, I am finding these mad dashes to the bathroom problematic. I will let yall know what I decide.