Ethan and the Hoes

Last night I called Ethan. I try to touch bases with him every three months or so to make sure that he hasn't become a complete whore. You see, while most of my girlfriends are suffering from terminal singleness, a single Ethan is knee-deep in female attention. He is the belle of the ball in New Orleans, accepting dinner dates and free drinks from women at every turn. It's worse at work, where his nurse co-workers bring him free meals. I thought this was a kind jester. Ethan has been about 30 pounds underweight his whole life. But we aren't talking Lunchables here. We are talking gourmet takeout sealed with a kiss. I am glad I am in his life. His friend pool consists of married frat boys whose advise usually ends with them suggesting he get a hotel room someplace with a desperate woman he barely knows.
"Ethan, you should honor your penis," I told him last night as he prepared to go out to eat with a girl he just met, Angela. He wasn't sure if it was a date or not, but from what he was telling me, it sounded like one. "Don't sleep around with these sad women."
"I'm trying not to," he insisted, the same way I did to myself just the other night as I downed a sleeve of Oreos.
As a woman, I can see Ethan's future with clarity, as if I have a crystal ball. If he doesn't get serious with a serious girl seriously soon he is going to become a serious scumbag, drunk on a seemingly endless supply of his professional success and database of willing women.
He texted me when he got home from dinner with Angela. I must be psychic, it was a date...even though she insisted on paying for it. He went on and on about how cool she is and how good the conversation was. Hopefully, it works out with this girl for Ethan's sake. The last thing the world needs is another man whore.

The Hair Flip

So I went to my homecoming, and shut up. I know that I said that I wasn't going to go because of the anxiety that I was having about it, but I have to say, it was a lot of fun and I am very glad that I went. For one, I thought that I would be the only single, fat person there. Not the case. And no one cared! Everyone was just happy to see everyone, and there was a good time had by all.
However, I am sad to report that some things about the people that I went to school with have not changed. Some of my female peers are still as terminally rude as they were ten years ago.
Once upon a time, about 11 years ago, I had a communications class with this girl named Ashley. I didn't know Ashley well, but I could tell by her attitude that she was one of those petite girls with long, flat-ironed hair that liked to flirt and felt like the world should revolve around her. During a study session, she referred to a male friend of mine that had just crossed Alpha Phi Alpha as fat multiple times. Number one: the boy was not fat. Number two: who uses the word fat so openly around a fat person? I tell you who: Ashley. Ashley the Rude.
Anywho, the first night of homecoming I found myself at a club for an alumni dance party. I was the first one there because I am old and punctual, and if my friend Ethan would not have agreed to meet me there, I would have gone home at 9:30pm. I mean, I really felt like a fish out of water. All I kept thinking was that the music was hella loud and that the young girls that were there needed to go home and change into something more appropriate.
Ethan got there as soon as I had decided to leave, and we stood at one of those tall tables and talked. In mid-sentence, I hear someone yell, "Ethan!" I turned around and who was it but Ashley the Rude. She is still just as cute as she always has been and had on this dope black sweatsuit. Her hair, as usual, was heat damaged to the side.
"Hi Ashley," I said, as she ignored me, stepped in front of me, and gave Ethan the warmest welcome I have ever seen in my life. I half expected him to pick her up, kiss her, and spin in a circle. They caught up briefly, and as Ashley motioned to leave, I said, "Bye Ashley." Homegirl didn't turn around, she simply flipped her hair in my face and walked away to dance with her other rude ass friends. She left me there with a tight face, blinking profusely, in a state of disbelief.
That night, I didn't really dance. I had a good time watching the youngins twerk and hearing my favorite songs on good speakers. My feet began to hurt, so I stood barefoot, rocking side to side to Cardi B, eating ice out of my cup. But on the way back to the hotel in my Uber, I realized that there is some comfort in things not changing for better or worse. Ashley the Rude is still rude. I still hate standing at the club. My classmates still look good. New Orleans is still fun. It's nice to know that as the world kicks your butt, there is still a mislead girl in a tracksuit that will flip her hair in your face for old times sake. This, my friends, is the definition of comforting.