Boring

What is the difference between 20 and 30 something women? Besides financial stability and varying levels of maturity, I would have to say the major difference is life experience. This became even clearer to me most recently when I talked to some 20-something girls after my writer's group.
Child, they sounded about crazy! They were going on and on about how they weren't interested in some of the young men in the group because they were awkward and boring. I was actually beginning to get annoyed before I reminded myself that they are but babes in this purgatory that is often referred to as "the single life".
When I was their age (before dating apps) I was looking for love on Craigslist (before the Craigslist Killer). I met a guy who was only looking for a fling to add to his list of flings, and another guy who lied about his height. No joke, he said he was 5'8 and showed up at my doorstep as a literal dwarf. Not that I have an issue with dwarves. On the contrary, I was open to dating one. But the fact that he had told such an outrageous lie killed our love before it had a chance to get off the ground. I had a long distance situation with a man who cashed his paychecks and kept all his money in Nike boxes under his bed. And who can forget the guy that I thought was my boyfriend...only for him to call and tell me that he needed emotional support dealing with the fact that he had impregnated a woman in a club bathroom. These girls don't understand: a boring man is what you want!
So what if he doesn't keep you on the edge of your seat wondering if he is going to get caught for that handful of warrants? You want a man that is going to work a real job and come home to you, without any outside club toilet babies.
When I was in college, I do admit that I had a thing for boys in fitted caps who drove Impalas. But where are those fascinating boys now? The ones who haven't changed into respectable family men are juggling women like foam balls!
I guess this is a lesson that you learn with age; when you realize that having a man that keeps you guessing really isn't that exciting.

Paternity Potato

Of late, I have been sitting on my imaginary couch watching real reruns of Paternity Court like a couch potato. That's right: I'm a Paternity Potato. '
Finding out that 5 seasons of full episodes of this show are on Youtube has been the most amazing, unproductive thing to happen to me in a long time. I have had a lot on my mind, on my chest, and in my spirit, so watching Paternity Court reruns has served as a welcome escape and fun way to waste time.
As a writer, I am a sucker for a good story, and this show is FULL of good stories. Women that get pregnant in threesomes. Men who thought they couldn't have kids because of painful, disfiguring scrotum trama, only to find out they are the father of twins. People who find out in their 40s that their father isn't really their father. On its face, it's a really sad show that highlights the downfall of our society. It is also hilarious.
I am at a stage in my life where it has become clear that it is time to activate the Plan B plan. Plan A was a mess, and it is going to take some serious brainstorming, GRE studying, research, and self-patience to get to the next level. But this whole process is overwhelming and exhausting. I just want to go back to a time where I was so stupid and tipsy on hand grenades that if my life was sinking, I would not have even noticed. But the past is in the past and I am now grown and very aware. I also don't drink anymore, so the drowning feeling is very frightening.
P thinks that I am a lazy crybaby. Maybe he is right. Thinking about all of my issues literally sucks the life out of me. Listening to an episode as I type, I guess it is a small blessing that I at least know who my father is. You have to be grateful for the little things.

Potty Panicked

(warning: this is a TMI post)
About a month ago, I had hands down the worst away from home bathroom experience of my life! It has taken me a minute to discuss it with you because I am still traumatized.
I had to pee really bad, and I had the choice of waiting on my aunt to come out of the grocery store and going at home or taking my chances and using a grocery store bathroom. Anyone who has had to go while shopping will tell you that using a grocery store bathroom is a tossup. But I didn't have a choice. I REALLY had to go.
I raced into the store and straight for the bathroom when my heart sank. My beloved handicapped stall was being occupied by a sister that was in the stall crying. Eyeroll. I had to think fast and on my feet. I could wait on her, but she was in mid-sob, and didn't sound like she would be coming out of there anytime soon. Or I could go to a basic bitch stall that has never, ever gone well for me. Seeing that I have not had A+ bladder control since I was 31, I chose a basic stall.
I ran to the stall at the back of the bathroom only for my heart to, again, sink. I was eye to eye with a dreaded low potty. This toilet looked like the toilets at the daycare that we used to train the 2-year-olds on! They are horribly uncomfortable for tall people, plus-size people, or anyone expecting a positive bathroom experience. But I had no choice! I had to go.
After relieving myself, I came back to reality quick. How the hell was I going to get off of the commode and out of the stall? I attempted to just move fast and get up, but I nearly torpedoed myself out of the stall head first.
I sat back, panicked. What was I going to do? I thought about calling my aunt, but she is notorious for not hearing it when she is out and about.  I even thought about calling to the crying lady in the handicapped stall for help, but how weird and awkward would that have been? For a split second, I thought about crawling out of the stall, but if my undies would have touched the bathroom floor, I would have had no choice but to set the whole bathroom on fire.
Fear gripped my body as I had a vision of me having to call the police to get me out of the stall. I sat there depressed. Was that what my life had come to? Me getting lifted off the john by first responders like some My 600-lb Life reject?
More motivated than I've ever been to do anything, I used my teaspoon of core strength to get up and elbow climb out of the stall.
"Hell ya!" I exclaimed as I got out of the stall with a sharp spasm in my side and tired arms. The lady in the handicapped stall was still crying, but not I! For the first time in a long time, I was faced with a hurdle and was able to get up.

24/34

The other day, I flipped back some pages in my journal and began reading passages from when I was 24. You would have thought that I had written those entries yesterday because my complaints about money, graduate school, and not knowing what I was going to do with my life read all too current. We are talking 10 years! How do I still have the same fears and anxieties?
My mentor recently told me that I need to "take the first step" with a lot of things in my life. She is so right. There are so many things that I have not started or accomplished out of fear of failure, so I don't even try. But this has to change. I don't want to go into middle age still debating on whether or not I want to retake the GRE or move out of Atlanta.
I have discovered that after my first big failure in my 20s, it has been increasingly more difficult for me to make decisions, not hat it was easy for me back then. I do recall moving through life with relatively more ease. But that just may have been because I was young, and not as aware as I am now that one wrong move could send me spiraling downwards and backward on the path of my life. I'm not old, but I am too old to make young mistakes. Just as with my joints, my rebound time from taking a hit has slowed significantly. That's why admire these young Instagram entrepreneurs that have put their last into a weave business and they are now millionaires. If I put my last into anything, the odds are too high that, if it goes south, I will spend the next ten years eating out of a tin can.
As true as this may be, I don't want to waste time making excuses. I want to do as my mentor advised and "take the first step". So I am currently working on a play, something I have always wanted to do. But I'm not as naive as I was when I was 5, watching a video of the play Purlie Victorious with my grandmother. I am very aware that my attempt at local theater flops, my career will take a Mike Tyson level hit that it may take me forever to recoup from. But you can't live in fear, right? So onward I go, working on my play. Hopefully, my 44-year-old entries will be written from a place of success and wealth. #positivethinking

Excited

I just ended a stint as a substitute teacher at a daycare. It was fun, sitting and playing legos all day with 2-year-olds. One of the teachers in the class was this statuesque 24-year-old babe that just graduated from college. I noticed that she kept her phone close to her, chronically checking it for something. Oh, how I remember the chronic cellphone check.
"I think she is excited, waiting on a guy to text her," I told Bells over a nice Mexican dinner. She was in town visiting her sister.
"Oh, I remember that," Bells said, nostalgically.
Watching Babe Teacher hold on to her phone for dear life, I realized that it has been a long time since I have been excited about a guy. There was that crush I had on that guy in my writing group, but that fuzzed out. I do believe that I have finally run out of excited-about-a-guy juice. I go on and on about how much I would love a man hug, but truth be told, I am not looking for anyone and I am sure that no one is looking for me.
But it is nice to be excited about a guy, waiting on his text, thinking of witty responses to whatever it is that he is going to say. When I am looking at my phone these days, it is just to check what time it is.
Right now, I'm more excited about the day that I finally get up the energy to defer my student loans and work on my credit. At 34, I can see 40 clear from here, and if I don't get my coin in order, I will be living in a cardboard box under the freeway. My good friends will come visit me every Sunday to bring me canned goods and baby wipes.
One day, I do hope to get excited about a man again, but for now, I have to find joy in writing disputes to TransUnion over what is on my credit karma report. Yay!

Who Let The Dogs Out?

Did I miss something? When did Black people become dog people?
I have to be honest: I am not a big dog person. I grew up in an area of Atlanta where many households had pit bulls or rottweilers. They would keep them tied up outside, ready to attack you when you walked by their houses, or bark at you while you waited on the bus. But let's be clear: those dogs were kept out.side.
Recently, I was feeling down, so my friend invited me to her sister's house for a dinner party. I was excited to go and get out of my own head. I was eager to meet some new people and of course, eat. Once we arrived at my friend's sister's house, I was speechless. The house was so beautifully decorated, I felt like I was in a fancy interiors Instagram page. I was looking at some of her awesome pictures and nicknacks when I caught a glimpse of a small Black dog out of the corner of my eye.
My body got tight and I froze in place as I listened to the rest of the family greet the dog in the living room. This was a dinner party. Surely they were going to throw the dog outside or lock her in a bathroom. NOT!
I tried to ignore the dog as it freely sashayed around the house like it owned the place. It was hard for me to really engage with people, mentally dipping in and out of the conversation to keep tabs on where the dog was at and what it was doing. 
The party moved into the living room for dessert and I calmed down just a little. The dog got comfy on the floor and looked as if it was going to go to sleep. That was until two guests came late with their slightly bigger more aggressive dog instep. Everyone greeted him like he was part of the family with the same hands they were holding their drinks with.
"This is an animal, gross," I thought to myself as they continued their unhygienic hellos.
Then the dogs saw each other and about an hour of barking and fighting ensued.
How do you let a host know that you are uncomfortable with their animals when invited to their home? I ask because me screaming out loud and shielding my dessert and face with my arms didn't do the trick.
Other than those ferocious beasts hovering around, the dinner was lovely. I told my friends this story and they say I am overreacting. Apparently, dog lovers consider dogs people. Not I. Gross.

The Artist

The night of the Christian Mix and Mingle, I met an artist. He walked up on me while I was bending over a table to rest my back. It was killing me, having just walked down the street in cheap shoes behind a very fast moving Kyndra. 

"Are you here for the thing?" he asked, pointing at the crowd of people who were gathered at this location. And you know where it was. I was at one of those repurposed Atlanta spaces that was once a factory or something. Visible pipes. Lots of steps. Now it is a jumble of galleries and lofts for events and photo shoots. 

"No, I am here for a dating thing," I said, still not standing up straight. I'm sure my butt was directly in his face, but my lower back was screaming! 

"Oh." 

I looked over my shoulder and butt to see a very fine chocolate man wearing overalls that were covered in paint. This caused me to sit up and at least pretend like I was comfortable. 

After a brief conversation, I found out that I was talking to a man named Fritz that owned a small gallery filled with his own work on the bottom floor. I was so interested in hearing about his work and looking at his face that I didn't notice that Kyndra had left me. Apparently, we were in the wrong building. He gave me one of his cards and I went on to find Kyndra. 

"I think I am going to call that artist and see if I can make him my Spring beau," I told Kyndra the next day on the way to church. She was not on board. She and the church clique are all about a man finding a woman and all of that. I don't know if that applies to me. I'm a plus size woman with a big afro in a red dress. If a man was going to find me, wouldn't he have found me by now?

That night, I looked up his website. He draws and sculpts people that kind of look like The Simpsons, and apparently, when he is not showcasing his art, he is leasing out his space for yoga classes and seminars. He was just as fine online as he was in person, minus that paint-spattered clothes. 

I stared at his email for about ten minutes before logging out of my computer for the night. All I could hear is Tony Gaskins, the Instagram relationship coach, talking about how men enjoy a hunt and that women looking for men is a no-no. I don't know. I guess a part of me does like the idea of an old-school romance where a man puts forth the effort. So I followed him on Instagram but I didn't email him. I told him my name when we met. If he's interested, he can find me.