The Girl and the Gyno

I have to find a new gynecologist. 

This may not seem like a big deal, but when you are overweight with body image issues, past Pap trauma, and no money, it can be a bit of a challenge. It's not something that I wanted to do, so I have been putting it off. But today I woke up with it on my mind, so I went to the list of gyno's I found on Google weeks ago and began to call around for questions and quotes, my anxiety at an all-time high. 

The first time I called Dr. A, her receptionist hung up on me. We will give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that it was a mistake. The second time I called I said hello and introduced myself for the receptionist to say in an annoyed voice, "Can you hold on?!" Before I could answer, she clicked over to another line, leaving me to listen to bad elevator music. I ultimately hung up before she could come back on the line, but waited a good while, hoping I would get the chance to yell, "Hey! Don't you know I am the daughter of a woman who ignored symptoms in her body until she literally dropped dead? I am trying to be proactive here biotch! How about a little compassion?!" That chance never came. I was tired of listening to scratchy Kenny G songs. 

I had a good feeling about Dr. B just looking at her name on my list. Her receptionist answered the phone after two rings, and her voice was bright and sunny. I thanked her for being so nice, because Dr. A's receptionist was rude. "Oh no! Rude already? It's too early in the morning!" My sentiments exactly. She and I chatted for a moment before she told me that the price of getting a Pap uninsured is $500. Sadly, I had to pass on that. 

Dr. C was a joke altogether.  First of all, she had that annoying phone system where you have to press 1 or 2 to get to speak to the person you need to speak to. I finally got to a receptionist that didn't sound rude, just overwhelmed. She put me on hold for so long that I ended up back on her line. She then forwarded me to a voicemail box that I am 98% sure never gets checked. 

By the end of it all, I found myself in the fetal position, panicked and anxious. How is it that we have little blue pills for men so that they can be 100 and sustain an erection, yet there is no at-home Pap test for well-meaning large women who just want some semblance of healthcare with no patience or money? I mean come on, where is science when you need her?!

I gave myself a break and streamed some TV before getting back on the horse, looking for someone to tend to my kitty. No luck today. Damn America's strict medical protocols. I am sure that in another country I could get this done by a med student for $20 in the backseat of their car. 

Dissecting the Dump

In the early 2000s I was friend dumped by two people that were very important to me: FeFeDo and Brownie. Both of them cut me off like a diabetic toe and didn't look back, and to say that I was hurt by this is an understatement. I would go as far as to say that I mourned them. The loss of them in my life was great. Yet, it was a weird kind of mourning, seeing that I still saw them on social media living their best lives. They weren't a few cups of dust in a couple of erns somewhere. They were alive and well, going to cookouts and gender reveals. They just didn't want to talk to me, which was a very bitter pill to swallow. Last year, I got closure from FeFeDo via text. Long story short, she felt like I was needy which was interesting, seeing that I talked her through every single one of her botched situationships that usually ended up in a dumpster fire of her own making, but that is neither here nor there. I am grateful that we got to clear the air, even though we are no longer friends. Brownie, on the other hand, is a fart in the wind. I will never know why he friend dumped me but his exit from my life reaffirmed something I pieced together as a child dealing with paternal abandonment issues: these bros ain't loyal. 

I have said it before and I will say it again: being friend dumped is worse than being dumped by a romantic partner because you kind of expect your partner to screw you. Your friends are real. They are your support. Their care for you is different. And as someone who grew up on Saved by the Bell reruns and Babysitter's Club books, I naively and at my own detriment consider friendship to be something monumental and life-long, even though I know that is not always the case. This I learned from FeFeDo and Brownie if I learned nothing else. Perhaps this is why I am on cruise control, seeing that I am currently being friend dumped now. Here we go again. Life is nothing if not annoyingly repetitive, am I right?

This go 'round, I am being dropped by "Britney" and "Neil". Britney is giving me what Michelle Obama referred to as "The Slow Ghost". We used to talk often, now she can go months without talking to me and I am always the one to call her. Our conversations don't flow as well as they used to, and I get the feeling that she has outgrown me. It happens, but it still stings. I don't have the energy to ask her about it because due to the FeFeDo-Brownie disaster, I know what's up without having to be told. I am trying not to dwell too much on it because I don't want to cry. Crying causes under eye puffiness that takes way longer to go down at my age. 

Then there is Neil. Oh Neil. One could argue that our friendship has not been even from the start. I started out with a crush on him and just on a general human level, it was obvious that I liked him more than he liked me. Yet over the years we have kept in touch and we make each other laugh. However, that old red flag is still evident: I always have to be the one to call him. On top of this, he has a girlfriend now and it should be universal common knowledge that a girlfriend is a platonic girl-boy friendship's kiss of death. I won't even bore you with the laundry list of men that went from friends to not-homies once they got paired up. I just brought this up to my therapist and we discussed how, when people get in relationships or marriages their priorities change. I get it. That's how it should be. I just wish I was someone, anyone's priority. 

As my own emotional doctor I have to say that I am monitoring the latest dumping situation closely. I am currently A-okay, no signs of mourning malignancy or Stage 4 anxiety. But hey, it's still early in the month. This time next week I could be catatonic. Thus is life. 

Being Bernard

I am who those scientific studies are talking about when they discuss how social media is bad for people, particularly the lonely and depressed. It is a fake space that you get to paint with the best moments of your life, leaving everyone to fawn over one another's lies and fairytales. I mean come on now. No one is posting their bills or bad credit scores. For the most part (with the exception of those that post those seven paragraph emo posts on Facebook), social media has become a never-ending scroll of plastic happy moments. Even knowing this, I have become jealous and absolutely obsessed with the "life" of a man I know named Bernard. 

Have you ever wondered if people that you know think about you? I do, mostly because I often think about people I know; what they are doing and how they are feeling. In today's detached world, I think that it is a good thing when people think about others. However, if Bernard knew just how much I thought about him, he would probably block me via all social avenues. I have to say that I am a little obsessed. But not because I am into him romantically, which is usually my M.O. I am hooked on his socials because they paint a picture of him being very...loved. 

What is so interesting about that? Well, for starters, it is important that you understand that Bernard is annoying. He has seemingly gotten more annoying with age. And this isn't just my opinion. People who know of him would overwhelmingly agree. He is very excited. Very energized. Very happy. Very extra. It may even be an understatement to say that the average person might find him completely intolerable. Not the people in his life though. His family and his friends- they consistently love up on him. They are there for him when great things happen like his starting a business and they are there for him when bad things happen like his failed relationships. It is like love surrounds this man from all directions. 

If I sound a little salty it is because I am. At this stage in my life, I can honestly say that I don't think that some of my dearest friends whom I love even like me. I have been sent to voicemail more than a bill collector. I sometimes wonder if those closest to me would even notice if I vanished. Bernard's friends would notice if he went missing. He is the center of their lives. They prioritize him. They seem to pour sunlight and good vibes into his mouth, and he swallows them proudly. I often wonder if he knows how beautiful that is, for I am ten minutes away from becoming buddies with a soccer ball like Tom Hanks in that movie. Say what you want, but that soccer ball was attentive and always there. Soccer ball-type loyalty is hard to find these days. Bernard has found it though, and this makes me hopeful for myself, even through the envy. 

Ain't Never Scared pt 2: Plottin' and Cupcakin'

One of my favorite social media fake relationship counselors said that it is important for single women to know what they want from men. After much deliberation on this, I have decided that what I want most from a man is conversation. Fun, flirty, innocent conversation. 

"Do people still cake on the phone?" I asked P. 

"Are they going to talk about sex?"  he asked. 

I thought about it. "No."

"Then no."

This was disappointing to hear, but as I am now trying to be the creator of the adventure in my life, I have decided to bring cakin' back. Some of my fondest memories as a middle schooler is playing soft music on the radio while me and my gay boyfriend at the time yacked it up about the important things in life: scary movies, our favorite foods, and kids we didn't like in our classes. It was so much fun getting to know him. That is what I want: to get to know a man...to the soundtrack of Jodeci. 

Now, I have asked some of my friends what their response would be if a person they knew but was not interested in romantically slid into their DMs and asked if they were interested in having late night conversations. Their answers were not reassuring. However, the name of the game is not being scary anymore when it comes to things like this. 

There is a guy that I know that I think would be a perfect for a cake call. I have slid into his DMs, typed up a cake invitation, then erased it. Although he seems nice, the idea of him telling all our mutual friends about the shot I attempted to shoot makes me physically ill. For this particular challenge, it has been a bit hard to keep up the Ain't Never Scared energy. I don't do well with being embarrassed. 

Here is the thing: I am a graduate school graduate longing to be in a middle school-paced relationship. I am also lonely and relationship immature. I know that I am skidding towards middle age. All the singles my age on social media are doing podcasts about how they like group sex and anilingus. All I want in my life is the telephone version of hand holding. If you knew me at all you would know that that is really all I can handle. My friend Carol said she will advertise my need for a cake beau on Twitter. I will keep you posted on any developments. 

Ain't Never Scared pt 1: The Vixen and the Baby Daddy

I think I need to get into my Bible. No, I know that I need to get into my Bible, because when I start thinking nasty, gross, inappropriate things about men that I know, that usually means that I am beginning to backslide back into the state of sticky, grotesque, thick horniness that I had previously been delivered from. 

"What is bringing all this about Holly?" 

Okay, I will tell you. 

One of my homegirls Reese recently texted me a picture of a beautiful woman in a flowing dress with a baby bump. A man was standing behind her, holding her baby bump with his hands around her waist. 

"Bones," I said to myself. I recognized him immediately. 

"Is that Bones?" Reese's texted asked. He had his head down in the pic, but it was definitely him. I was shocked. He has had a kid before, but none of us could ever figure out who the baby's mother was. What a difference a few years makes. For baby number two, he took styled, professional photos that were then blown up to enormous posterboards to be displayed at a chic, trendy baby shower where guests could partake in mommyhitos handpicked from an elaborate wall refreshment display. 

Let me be clear: I am happy for Bones. He's fine. Mrs. Bones is fine. And chances are that baby is going to arrive catalogue model ready. Bones is just representative of someone that I used to like and didn't tell. And let me be clear again: I am in no way Bones's type. He likes cheerleaders and women that look like they were created by Mattel. I didn't say anything in college because I was scared, and I didn't say anything after college because I was mortified. The closest I got was writing him a poem that I only shared with Liz and that I will now share with you. 

Asked the vixen to her master:

"Where do I touch you?"

Said the master to his vixen:

"Touch me where you touch yourself."

I remember that Liz was silent on the other end of the line. After about two minutes of deliberation, she said, "Don't ever send that to him. If you ever want to send it to him, send it to me, and I will respond like I am him." 

Okay, Liz was probably right. Erotic poetry was probably not the way to let my feelings be known. 

"But Holly, why would you tell him you liked him when you know he wasn't going to like you back?"

Good question. And the short answer is so that I can stop being scary. As you know, a closed mouth does not get fed, which is probably why I am love starved as we speak. Bones is just one of many, and as I get older, I have become more and more impatient with my being scared. And this isn't just with men, it's with everything! One day I want to confidently be able to proclaim, "I ain't never scared!" and mean it. Until then, I'm just a vixen without a master. But I'm working on it. I can't be scared of being scary anymore. 

Finding Cameron

I found my kindergarten/ 1st grade crush on Facebook! Well, I didn't really find him. He popped up as a friend suggestion. I don't know what made me pay attention to the suggestion. I usually ignore them because I NEVER know who Facebook says I should but there he was: Cameron. 

I went through his page with my stalker hat on, trying to figure out what he has been up to all these years. He isn't that consistent of a Facebook poster, but from what I could tell, he has had a good life. He graduated from an HBCU. He is a Sigma. I don't know what he does for a living, but he looks like success. The only thing annoying on his page is that he has a girlfriend and it looks like they do workouts together. Gross. 

Seeing that he had not posted anything in months, I decided to send him a friend request, not expecting him to respond. He accepted it a second later, and since then (which was Monday morning), I have been in a state of euphoria. 

Come with me on my mental spaceship to 1990, East Point, Georgia. I was obsessed with edible bracelets and glow in the dark scrunchies. I had a serious addiction to Fruit Rollups, and I was majorly crushing on the boy that sat beside me in class. His name was Cameron, and his voice was high and his laughter was loud and sounded like he was singing. His head and face were always shiny, like his mom put oil on his hair and then rubbed the rest of it over his face. I actually know that is what happened because my grandma did that to me all the time. He was mischievous, but he wasn't bad. He just liked to do little annoying things that got him sent to time out. And he had slits in his eyebrows. Child. I am into men today with eyebrow slits! 

Looking at his page, I realized that I have been into the same type of guy my whole life, which further feeds into my feeling that you are who you are when you are born and do very little evolving as you get older. The cards are dealt from the jump. Okay. I am starting to babble. The point is I recently came across the man named Cameron, smiling and being lighthearted on social media, and I can totally see why I was into him when I was a child. Just thought I would share. 

Summer Scents: Good Chemistry

I can be a little persnickety when it comes to fragrances, especially in the summer. For me, this is a time for softer, lighter scents, and often the ones that are recommended to me are way too heavy for the heat. Well, Good Chemistry has nailed it with this collection of beautiful summer scents that coasts on amazing blends of fruit and vanilla. Here are a few of my favorites:

When you think Sugar Berry, think raspberry with a touch of vanilla. Think beach vibes. Think vaykay. It's one of those fragrances that you wear and then end up sniffing yourself throughout the day. Yes, she's that yummy! 

Be careful with Cheerful Charmer, she's sexy! With hints of coconut milk, apple blossom, and vanilla, she's giving summer love. She's giving little black dress. She's giving good trouble all season long! 

Pink Palm is cute. She's clean. She's the fragrance that you reach for when you want to give them just a little something to talk about. A mix of dragon fruit, magnolia, and sugared vanilla, Pink Palm needs to be a staple in your purse for the summer. 

Not only does Good Chemisty have great fragrances, it's also a great company all around. Their products are dye-free, paraffin-free, paraben-free, and GMO-free. They are also PETA Certified Cruelty-Free and Vegan. Their fragrances range from $28.99-$12.99, so they are also affordable. I think that my absolute favorite is Pink Palm. Let me know which one you fall in love with.