I can’t even deal with how cold it is again. We thought the last days of Winter were behind us, but no. I am fully layered up in my puffer coat, hood buttoned, and hands shoved in my fleece lined pockets while the wind is accosting my face. I’m trucking it to the gym to get my after work cardio in while listening to EVOL and wondering why we love such misogynistic music. Maybe Chris Rock was on to something when he said ‘if the beat’s alright she’ll dance all night.’ The plan is to do thirty minutes of cardio then rush to my side of town so I can get groceries and make dinner for me and bae. I’m super juiced to test out my new stainless steel pots and pans in an attempt to make chicken Marsala (per my Weight Watchers recipe guide). As I’m bundling up to head back out into the tundra from the gym I decide I should give him a call to see when I should expect him, but just as I go to grab my phone, he texts me first. ‘Hope you had a great workout.’ I blush as usual and ask what time I should expect him and he replies “I’ll call when I’m on the way.”

I have dosed off on the train at least three times, something I swore I would never do when I first moved here. “How do people sleep on the nasty ass train with all these weird people you don’t know?” I used to wonder. Well for those of us who aren’t homeless it just kind of happens. All of the running around you did that day catches up to you, and when you sit down, the rocking back and forth from the motion of the train just lulls you to sleep. Ten stops later I’m at the grocery store. I rush home, bags in hand while having my daily after work phone call with my best friend. Never do I regret moving to a fourth floor walk up more than when I get groceries. If nothing else, climbing those stairs everyday will get/keep me fine. I don’t know how anyone in New York is overweight with all of the stairs we are constantly climbing. I shower, turn on my Pandora comedy station and start cooking. Everything is coming along nicely and I am feeling pretty freaking proud of myself. Not because I can’t cook. I maintain that I can cook, I just don’t…not as often as I should anyway. But I feel more inclined to do so now that I have my own space, and this Summer trip is almost here. I am so caught up in Louis CK’s astute observations about the world and my culinary skills that I don’t realize how late it has gotten. No word from bae yet. I send him a text, no response. I go ahead and pack my lunch and the leftovers that would be his dinner and head to my room to do some work. An hour passes. Then another, and another and still no word. I call, no answer. Thoughts are as follows:

1) Did something happen to him?
2) Did he fall asleep?
3) Is he with someone else?
4) Should I be this hurt?
5) Of course I should be this hurt
6) How is this happening again?
7) What about this trip he planned for us? And the fact that he met my friends and talked to my mom? Was that real, or was that game? Was any of this real?
8) Am I overreacting?
9) Of course I’m not overreacting

Sleep alludes me right now. My mind is racing and a part of me is still silently hoping he will call and explain, and that there’ll be a valid reason for him standing me up. I pray myself to sleep because nothing else will give me peace right now. I am terrified of going through hurt and disappointment again. I’m angry at this complete disregard for my time and energy. I find myself in an uneasy sleep. I toss and turn, waking up randomly until finally it’s time to get ready for work. I wake up immediately remembering what happened and that today won’t be easy if I don’t get some answers. I text Nikki while on the train because I don’t know how to handle this. My lack of experience with this kind of stuff is rearing its ugly head and I am completely clueless. In true form she gives me a mantra consisting of four things to focus on for the day, because my skepticism about dating is what’s manifesting these things to happen (according to her). So this is my fault? My fears told the universe to allow this to happen? I wonder if this whole law of attraction thing came about as a means to help us feel in control in a world where we have so little. Do we tell ourselves that if we just think positive thoughts, positive things will happen in an effort to soothe ourselves when things don’t go our way? I really don’t know, but I also know I am not willing to take responsibility for being stood up. I get to work with a horrible imitation of a good mood and get an index card from the supply shelf. On it I write the four things to focus on for the day.

1) I am abundant in all areas of my life
2) My faith rejects any negative thoughts
3) The desires of my heart are constantly manifesting
4) The universe responds to who I think I am

That last one doesn’t sit well with me, because I don’t know who I think I am. I know who I want to become and I know that I am not her yet, but I’m not sure who I think I am in this moment. More than anything I wish I could see myself the way other people in my life see me. The people around me think I am so strong and confident and fearless, but I rarely ever feel that way, especially in moments like this. SO maybe I should start thinking that’s who I am and it’ll just happen, because if you tell yourself something long enough, you start to believe it. I feel very uncertain of myself right now, but I know this much, it’s dangerous to not know who you are especially when dating. While this is somewhat a moving target, because we are in a state of perpetual growth, you should have a general idea of who you are. So I think on number 4 all day. I think about specifically what I want, what I won’t settle for, and how I feel. I mull it over in my mind, who do I think I am?

When he finally texts me to apologize promising to make it up to me, I know that I’m not just taking that shit lightly. That’s cute and everything but I need to know what happened that I couldn’t get a call or a text saying you can’t make it. We agree to chat after work. Again, I know myself well enough to know that if I go straight home after work I will drive myself crazy waiting for that phone call. So I make plans to get drinks with a friend.

I give my good Judy the tea while I sip two shots of Patron, because mixed drinks just aren’t worth the calories and it’s too dramatic to actually take these shots at this hour in the day. I head home, and the phone call begins….

My not namesake once said, “in New York, they say, you’re always looking for a job, a boyfriend or an apartment.” Well what the hell happens when you realize you might have all three? You get scared that’s what. I feel afraid that at any moment either of those things can go away without any real cause.  And while I know that I can recover from damn near anything, going through the emotion of losing something (even if it’s for the best) is hard to endure.

I realize how lit my life is right now and my un-diagnosed anxiety is at an all time high, because I’m afraid I can’t handle all of these blessings. I know that sounds weird, because shouldn’t I just be happy? Shouldn’t I just be thankful and live in the moment that the things I have prayed for are coming into fruition? The scripture “pour me out a blessing that I shall not have room enough to receive,” is beyond accurate. There are things happening for me that I didn’t even know to ask God for. The guy in my life is so incredibly sweet and thoughtful and kind, and when you’re used to dealing with the opposite (phuckboys) it almost scares you for someone to be so consistently…consistent.  For example “The Boy” as we will call him for now takes out my trash every time he leaves my house. That’s not even a thing I ever thought about a guy doing for me, but he does it without me asking. Simple things like that to show me that he respects my space and how hard I work to maintain it just make me all blushy. Yet a small part of me is giving him the side eye, because I’m wondering when he’s gonna change. When is he gonna stop being this good to me? So I don’t want to get comfortable or accustom to having him in my life, because men people can lose interest just as quickly as they show it. Having had my heart broken a few times I know I’m not in a place where I can handle having the rug pulled from under me like that. My friend’s advice is: “don’t get too attached or emotionally involved yet.” And they say this as if it’s an easy thing to do. Question: how do you get to know someone and give them a fair shot without getting emotionally involved? Are you giving it a real chance if you’re that guarded?  I wonder if guys know the damage they do to girls when they are so horrible to them.  I wonder if they know or care how much they scar and wound with their lack of concern for your feelings.  I don’t want to be that person at all.  I hate being the girl with trust issues as it is so cliche.  It’s not okay to punish someone for the wrongdoing of others, yet you want so badly to save yourself from being hurt again.  It comes down to finding a balance somewhere in the middle which comes with practice, something I don’t have a lot of.  I am what you call a bad dater.  I don’t like anyone and I mean anyone.  I find a lot of guys to be draining, so when I find someone I actually like I focus solely on that person.  Sure I would love to diversify my portfolio, but I just don’t find many guys worth the initial investment of my time or energy.

I’m afraid that I’m not writing enough or writing well enough or often enough to feed this part of my career. That I’m not learning enough about fashion to become the expert I want to be. That I’m not well read enough to speak about the things that are actually important. I worry about my spending habits in relation to the major financial responsibilities I’ve signed up for in getting a one bedroom apartment, and that I can’t seem to get my eating habits under control. (I am very aware that these are first world problems by the way).

My new apartment is so great. The fact that I can pee with the door open is so liberating. You have no idea. I truly from the depths of my soul do not like peeing or stopping to get gas, because there is never an opportune time to do either of those things. You always have to get gas when you’re on the way somewhere, and you always have to pee when you’re asleep or in the middle of doing something. Just the fact that I can run in my house after having not gone to the bathroom and do so with the bathroom door open is just a real life blessing in my eyes. And then I think about how much I am paying for that simple luxury and I panic. My mind drifts and wonders what if I can’t handle this?  To whom much is given much is tested.  So I’m pretty sure I’m being tested and psyching myself up everyday to believe I can do this.  That I am equipped for this.  That this is what I’ve ‘trained’ for.  I am both terrified and excited about life at the same damn time.

I can tell you one thing I have realized.  There is no trick, potion, or easy method of getting what you want out of life.  The major key is just to do the work.  Why am I only just now understanding the brilliance behind ‘Just Do It?’  That’s really all it takes.  Just do the work and let God handle the rest.

Another day, another “opportunity” we have to defend our right to flourish as black women (insert heavy deep sigh here).  I woke up to a text from my beloved bestie inquiring about my thoughts on an Elle article about Black Girl Magic.  I had her send me the link on the way to the train so I could read what I knew would be yet another white woman asking why black women feel they’re so special (we are by the way).  Imagine my surprise and utter disappointment to discover that it was a black woman who penned the article titled: Here’s My Problem With Black Girl Magic.  Let me first say that all black women don’t have to have the same beliefs about everything, because we are not a monolith, but my goodness honey how do you find fault in this movement?  Do you understand the metaphor behind Black Girl Magic?  It means that we endure prejudice and racism, while simultaneously having to overcome the obstacles of misogyny, yet we still slay.  The magic you so coarsely disagree with is our ability to flourish in the face of adversity, the levels of which very few people in this country can understand, or even handle.  It takes a superhuman amount of grace, fidelity, confidence, intelligence, and willpower to thrive and exceed expectations in this world.  So yes, we are magical.

There are so many flaws in the logic of this viewpoint that I don’t know where to begin.  Firstly, I need you to understand that it is neither our strength nor our flaws that are the cause for the list of attacks you listed.  Look at Black Girl Magic written out.  Sweet girl you lost them at Black.  They don’t give a shit about you being a girl or your glow up capabilities.  Those who stand to oppress or harm us don’t care how smart, beautiful, tenacious, weak, strong, meek, or bold we are.  It is simply that we are black.  That is enough for them to feel justified in their stance.  It is our mere existence that stands to threaten their privilege, and they feel entitled to try to tear that down.  Your piece is truly the embodiment of the quote, “our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.”  You seem to be afraid of the power you are unaware that you possess. Would you rather that we cower in fear and play the victim so as to appear more deserving of basic human rights?  It wouldn’t work. Our presence, because of the way we came to this country compared to where we are now, is the threat to their status quo.  That is to be celebrated.

Secondly, being magical (fictionally of course because we don’t know that magic exists which is why this is a very bizarre thing to even discuss) doesn’t make you subhuman, it makes you superhuman.  With that being said I would like for you to think about the superhero archetypes we have seen since we were children.  Everyone who possesses superpowers or has some super natural gift was flawed…horribly.  That’s the point of the cartoon, comic strip, movie, etc. To show that these people are still people, they just have a little something extra that makes them have to work a little bit harder to be accepted.  Sound familiar?  If they weren’t flawed, there would be no story.  So to say that we are flesh and bone and not sub human kind of doesn’t need to be said.  They know that, they just don’t care.  And that’s what should really scare the shit out of you.  Their inability to see us as human is a problem with them, not us.   Maybe it makes you feel safe to find fault in our actions so as to humanize the oppressors, because it is unfathomable that human beings can be so cruel towards other human beings, but that is the very harsh reality we live in.

Lastly, the strong  black woman is not just an ideal or a part of the character development in a Shonda Rhimes show.  That is real life.  That is watching your mother work 16 hour days to give you the same things she had growing up with both of her parents.  That is listening to your grandmother talk about how she cleaned houses and office buildings but always wearing proper hosiery and never unkempt, because you should take pride in your appearance.  Being a strong black woman is being pushed off of a train in the subway and having no one stand up for you so you stand up for yourself.  Or it’s having a very similar man verbally attack you and try to physically assault you and call you an animal while once again no one comes to save you so you save your damn self.  Our strength and independence came out of a need to survive,  and I will not have you or anyone else tell me that, that “archetype” is why white men feel they can tear us down.  Our resilience is our magic.  Own it.

 

I was preparing myself mentally to pack for my week and a half long trip home to Atlanta for the Holidays. Because I am obviously the most important person in my office (she said with heavy sarcasm) I had to leave straight from the office to go to the airport which means I had to bring my luggage with me to and from work. It is important to note that my office is located right smack dab in the middle of all the typical New York tourist areas. There’s luxury shopping on one end, and cheesy sightseeing on the other. I just knew it would be a shit show trying to lug a huge suitcase through all those people, so I was determined to pack only a small carry on suitcase and my offensively large purse. This required Parisian level curation for my wardrobe. What do I mean by that? A French wardrobe is thought to be one consisting of very few pieces that are of impeccably high quality, and that can be easily mixed and matched to create a chic and well styled look with each ensemble. When you clean out your closet, only keeping the good and the useful and giving away the things that are unnecessary, you end up with a selection of things you actually like. It’s easier to get dressed in the morning and to shop, because you know your wardrobe. You know what your real wants and needs are. You know what pieces you should invest in. You know where you’ve wasted money. You know what stores you should probably stay away from, and you know what your true sense of style is. Have I convinced you yet?

Photo: CluelessAs I executed my packing plan using Pinterest as my guide, I thought to myself how efficient and easy it makes packing and getting dressed to minimalize your wardrobe. To just go through it and be honest with yourself about what you don’t really need, want, or wear very often and to give those items to someone who needs them. I took this thought a step further and wondered why I don’t apply this same concept to my life more often.

Photo: Parks and Recreation
If you step back and really take an inventory of your life there are some things and some relationships that don’t benefit you. They take up unnecessary energy and they fill the space in your life with clutter. Draining ass people for example are like a size 4 pair of True Religion jeans that no longer fit you or your style, yet you hold on to them on the off chance that they will somehow become useful to you again. I am here to tell you that they won’t and you need to let them go (the jeans and the draining ass people, because both are trash).

Thinking back on the people and the bad habits I have fought to keep in my life through some false rationalization or some sad means makes me cringe. Staying in a toxic friendship to keep the peace. Trying desperately to hold on to someone who in all honesty just isn’t that in to me. Spending money on things I didn’t need because I convinced myself I deserved a treat or five. I can’t even get into how much money I didn’t have that I spent on food I didn’t need to be eating anyway. Cringe worthy! No one really warns you about how cluttered your life can become as you grow older. You accumulate a lot of things, habits, and people that are just taking up space that could be otherwise used for something productive. Notice I never said to throw anything away, but to give it to someone who needs it. This is a two way street, because you may be taking up unnecessary ass space in their life too. By removing yourself from their life you give them the freedom to pursue what’s right and better for them as well. I know you want to think that you are God’s gift to the world, but girl you’re probably draining the hell out of someone else too. Let’s be real.

As this year approaches its end, make a pact with yourself to curate your life with Parisian level skill. Take an inventory and let go of the bad, draining, useless, unhealthy, unproductive, unfulfilling, uninspiring, things habits and people that are stopping you from being great. And try not to be those things to anyone else. If you find that you are, then do us all a favor and back out slowly then take off in a full sprint out of their lives and do better!

Thank you for reading. This has been a tremendous year of growth and opportunity for me and I appreciate you taking the journey along with me. Hopefully there’s much more to come in 2016. See you there.

I woke up on Wednesday to the drumroll that serves as the prelude to Spottieottiedopaliscious. As soon as my feet hit my hardwood floor I can feel every bit of the 45 minutes I spent on the elliptical machine the night before. What the hell was I trying to prove by trying the Hill Plus program anyway? It is 6 AM, and I can swear it was just 11:30. It’s like I blinked and all of a sudden it’s a whole ass new day. I grab my laptop to start on the story I promised my editor would be ready by noon today. At 7 AM I start getting ready for my 9 to 6 job.

En route to the train I review the invoice I submitted this month and a sly grin creeps across my face, because I have extra cash coming my way. I skim my emails from PR reps requesting that I cover this event or that one, and I RSVP to a product launch party at The Hearst Tower. “I would love to attend, and thank you so much for reaching out. Kindest Regards, Jessica.” While on the Q I read a chapter of Between The World And Me, and get really existential about what it really means to be in this black body, and how different the world must look from the perspective of black women versus that of black men and then I’m like ooooohhhh he’s evaluating the space between the world and himself. Duh Jessica. And then I try to remember what his explanation was for the use of the word body so many times in this book.

I get to my 9 to 6 job and everyone is dressed to the nines for our Holiday party at the Russian Tea Room later on that evening. The Executive Assistants are making last minute preparations, passing out gifts, and asking me to assist with one thing or another. Around noon I submit my story for my editor’s review, and my two supervisors call me in to a conference room. I walk in with pen and pad ready to jot down notes for a project. “Okay what can I help you guys with?” I ask enthusiastically. “We don’t need you to take notes, we need you to listen,” one replies matter-of-factly. My palms get sweaty and my mind starts racing about what I might have screwed up on. “You’ve been a great asset to the company in the short time you’ve been here. So we want to offer you a raise and a bonus.” She slides a piece of paper over to me. I looked over the numbers and fought the urge to cry with joy. I leave the conference room and quickly fold the card stock paper and stuff it in my purse. I check my email for the 30th time today and there is a note from an FIT/Georgia Southern student asking if she can interview me for her final project. I re-read it like three times, because I’m wondering why anyone would want to interview me. She goes on to explain that she came across my Linked In profile and was intrigued by my career path. I obliged.

6:00 PM hits and I have to rush over to 37th and 10th to interview Christian Siriano at an awards ceremony. The trains are trash so I end up walking much further than I planned to and I am paranoid that my edges are sweated out and my face looks greasy. The PR rep working the door rushes me in ahead of the writers from the Times and Elle. “I know you have an event to get to afterwards so I’m gonna let you have the first interview,” she whispers. While interviewing Mr. Siriano I simultaneously request an Uber to get me to the Russian Tea Room in time for dinner because I have completely missed cocktail hour. The decor is opulent and colorful and the food is amazing, but I can barely eat because my adrenaline is still pumping. I just did my first red carpet interview ever! I have two glasses of the most amazing champagne I’ve ever tasted just to calm my nerves. At the conclusion of our CEO’s speech we all gather our things and head to our respective homes. Some of the execs head to the unofficial after party at a near by bar.

On the train ride back to Brooklyn I can’t even focus enough to read Ta-Nehisi Coates’ dissection of his life as a black man. I am so in awe of the overflow of blessings in my life that I listen to Travis $cott and then Drake and then PartyNextDoor to relax. I get home and climb the inexplicable amount of stairs in my house. I walk past the room that serves as the dwelling space for my roommates’ dog. The smell is ghastly. I instantly get annoyed at the text I’m going to have to send to remind grown ass people to clean up after their dog.

I get to my room and put down my stuff. I feel like listening to Sza. I sit on the edge of my bed and finally take off my heels. Looking at the imprint the laser cut outs made on my feet I remember why I haven’t listened to her in a while. This album reminds me of a person, of early morning texts, late night pics, of a moment in time when we were getting along. When I heard from him everyday and after an argument him saying ” I fucking love you Jessica stop trippin.” Then laughing at the fact that that’s the first time he had ever said that to me, and the words he chose to express it. My eyes begin to water. Not just over the memory of him, but the fact that that memory stole the joy the entire day had given me. But I realize it’s not him or his absence in my life right now. It’s the fact that there is a huge void in my life that no amount of accolades, money, promotions, praise, or red carpets can fill. I’m laying on my bed, makeup smearing on my white pillow case at the frustration I feel with myself. My life is amazing right now. I have so much of what I have been chasing for so long, how can I not just be content? Am I that girl? I don’t want to be that girl. My friend Shelly had told me a few days before that it’s okay to admit you want a man. Those words hit me so hard, because who wants to say that aloud? Who wants to admit they want something they have no control of attaining? The thing is once you acknowledge that that companionship is something you want, it’s like unleashing a flood of feelings, thoughts, and emotions that no one wants to endure. It feels like you’re in a constant state of rejection because you don’t have it. You go back and forth in your head wondering if there is something wrong with you because you don’t have it. And then you feel stupid for lusting after a man when there’s so much more to life than that. Stay busy. Stay focused. A season for everything. Trust in God’s timing. I repeat these things to myself like a mantra while I hear Sza “sometimes I keep you in my mind, sometimes I let you go up high…” I blink and it’s 6 AM again. The drumroll starts and so does another day.

So good news!  God blessed me with a full time job with great benefits at a great company that has absolutely nothing to do with fashion.  I feel so fortunate that I can still write and be a part of the world of fashion, but I also now have the ability to be financially secure and independent.  I have always found it to be insanely interesting to be a part of the support staff in a corporate environment.  This position affords you the opportunity to be both a therapist and an anthropologist.  Most of the people in the company have to pass my desk multiple times a day and more often than not I get these bits and pieces of their lives.  Sometimes because they just need to vent to someone, and other times it’s because I kind of blend in with the background and overhear them spilling the tea.

There’s one woman in particular at my new company who I am absolutely fascinated with.  This woman, we’ll call her Lucy, once held a key position to a former POTUS, and is now the head of communications for our company.  Her outfits slay everyday that she comes into the office, she eats at all of the best restaurants in the city, and vacationed in Italy, Croatia (and randomly Vermont) in the short month and a half that I have worked there.  Lucy is in her mid to late 50’s and has never been married or had children.  She’s wildly successful, skilled at her job and has more money than God, yet I’m ashamed to admit that I can’t help but wonder if she feels as if there is anything missing.  Does Lucy go home to her empty Upper East Side dwelling, which I’m sure is impeccably decorated, and regret not having a family, or does she have deep sighs of relief throughout the day as she sees the washed wasp mom’s with their children (nannies) at Central Park?

Looking at this powerful woman go in and out of the office lead me to reevaluate what true happiness and fulfillment looks like to me.  Just to show you God has a sense of humor, as I was having these thoughts I came across an Elle interview with Shonda Rhimes where she addresses this very issue by saying: “there are people who’ve been conditioned to think that there’s one type of happiness. And we’ve got to teach people that there are many different kinds of happy endings.”  The older I get, and the more trash ass experiences I have with men, the more I wonder if that life of marriage and children just isn’t one that I’m going to have.  What if that’s not for me?  What if I have been alone for so long, because I am meant to live the life Lucy is living?  Could I feel completely fulfilled being wildly successful, wealthy, well traveled, cultured, and powerful with no man to share that with and no children of my own?  As the people around me embark on the journeys of parenthood and marriage, I have to admit that I don’t even long to be where they are.  I definitely would like to have that kind of companionship and love, but the idea that I may never plan a wedding or a baby shower doesn’t completely freak me out anymore.

There are some things that are so ingrained in our culture that we don’t even bother to question their origin.  We have been socialized to accept these things as the norm, be it by religion, culture, or greater society as a whole.  Did you know that we wear white wedding dresses and have Christmas trees in our houses because Queen Victoria made these things posh in the 1800’s?  Those are both things that we accept as the norm, because that’s how things have always been done, and I am beginning to wonder if the institution of marriage falls in the same category.  I suppose that I won’t be able to make that final decision until I experience that level of love and that level of success.  Then again, who is to say we can’t have it all?

That Saturday was absolutely perfect.  The sunlight and lack of humidity made for great edges and great selfies.  When we got to the restaurant, the wait staff had become noticeably more attractive than the last time I was there.  There was one waiter in particular that kept flirting and from my sangria induced courage I decided to give him my number.  My thought process went as follows: I don’t have all day to wait for you to build up the nerve to ask for my name and number, honey I have things to do, so here.  Use it, don’t use it, I don’t even care.  He blushed and was pleasantly surprised, so we left and headed back to the part of New York that no one has forgotten about.  He text me and was really excited to get to know me, as they all are in the beginning, but chile let me tell you I have been fooled before, but that’s another story for another day.  So a few things that should have indicated that this wasn’t the guy for me:

1)      I told him multiple times I don’t like being complimented over and over again.  Like don’t address me as Pretty or Beautiful.  Just talk to me how you talk to any regular person you’re trying to get to know.  Compliments in and of themselves make me dreadfully uncomfortable, if I express this to you, don’t keep doing it.

2)      The day I met him he sends me a picture of him and his niece.  I could be crazy, why are you sending me that?

3)      He didn’t know proper usage of their, they’re, their, to, too, your, or you’re.  I know this seems petty but for the love of God you’re an adult!

4)      He asked me to send him a picture.  Face palm.

5)      He said that my eyes are very dreamy and that he wouldn’t be able to look at me for fear that I would hypnotize him.

A little info about me: maybe to another chick those things wouldn’t be so unsettling, and maybe I’m not normal.  It is quite possible that I’m the weirdo and these are perfectly normal things, but I like what I like and me no likey that stuff.  I like to be talked to like a normal person, not like an object you’re trying to acquire to add to your menagerie.  The men in my life that I have loved both romantically and platonically won me over by talking to me like a regular person, and letting anything else happen organically.  There were never any cheesy lines, or arbitrarily assigned pet names.  Just regular, stimulating, interesting conversation.  Yet you people insist upon talking to me about things that are of no interest to anyone.  This is me, judge accordingly.

I expressed my concern that this guy might be a bit strange to my friend, we’ll call her Myra.  “Jess, you’re so anal when it comes to dating.  Stop being so difficult and give the guy a chance.”  I’m hella immature so of course I laughed that she called me anal, but I thought maybe she has a point.  I agreed to go on a date with him, but thankfully I didn’t let him pick me up from my house, give him any of my social media handles, or my last name because he turned out to be a stage five clinger.

He showed up to the date, and I swear to you he was the two faced man like that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry dated a woman who looked good in one light and not to so good in other lighting.  His head was so wide, that I winced in pain for his mother.  His upper body was really big, and his lower body was noticeably small.  He had the most unattractive walk I have ever seen on a man.  This is the only way I can describe it.  There’s this thing that happens to women when they’re surfing the crimson wave when they have been seated for a long time and then stand up and gravity says eff you, and there’s a huge rush of blood.  Now imagine that happens to you when you’re wearing white pants and you instinctively clinch your legs together to scurry to the bathroom.  That’s how he walked.  His legs were really tight together in the most effeminate way possible.

Things that happened on the date that were awful:

1)      He said he doesn’t drink, but ordered three drinks in the hour we were sitting there.

2)      He showed me pictures of his dog.  Let me point out that his dog was a Pomeranian.  I said out loud: oh this is happening, you’re showing me pictures of your dog.

3)      He told me really weird detailed stories about his ex who is my namesake.

4)      He didn’t know what a skirt steak was.  Sir you work at a restaurant where they serve skirt steak, how Sway?

5)      He tried to sing to me.  “Oh no please don’t,” I protested.  He then told me that in addition to becoming a firefighter, he also wants to do music but listed a bunch of reasons why that hasn’t happened yet.

6)      He said that he knew how to dance really well and worked as a “motivator” for a DJ.  Much like you would have, I asked what that is.  “It’s like a person that tries to get the crowd really amped up during a show,” he explained.  “Oh so like a hypeman?” I asked.  “No,” he said.  I was puzzled.

7)      He was sweating profusely, but refused to use one of the many napkins on the table and wiped it with his hand.  All I was thinking the whole time he ate this steak without cutting it, and using his hands was: I wonder if the steak tastes more salty since he is in affect eating his own sweat as a garnish with it.

8)      When we got in his car, he instantly played some Weeknd type song about performing cunnilingus really loud.

In hopes that maybe I was just being a bitch and this guy is perfectly normal, I agreed to go with him to the Brooklyn Bridge Park upon his suggestion.  I googled and saw that it is a well-lit area where many people walk and run each night.  As soon as I got in his car, he leans over and caresses my arm and tried to kiss me.  I almost lost my shit and leaned alllllll the way to the window.  “Are you having a good time?” he asks as if we are in a romantic comedy.  “Ummm sure,” I replied.  “I want to hear that you’re having a great time,” he says and I echoed this sentiment thinking, he’s joking right?  We start walking along this board walk where he says that he only goes to church on special occasions, but would go more often if I wanted him to.  (Face palm).  The view of the city is beautiful and I almost enjoyed that until he proceeded to rub my arms and back as we were walking.  His hand went lower towards my butt until I did a spin move and asked if he’s an affectionate person.  He replies, “yeah, are you?”  “Yes with people I know,” I replied.  He got the hint and backed off.  Which is a good thing, because I envisioned myself tossing him smooth over the pier with some sort of adrenaline based super human strength.  When we got back in the car I started trying to think of ways to make sure he couldn’t drop me off at my house.  I text Myra to call me in five minutes.  I pretended she was my roommate asking me to stop at the bodega and bring her something home.  Well my friend Myra took her role really seriously, and asked that I bring her tampons and cranberry juice.  So let me get this straight sis, in this fictional scenario you have a UTI and you’re on your period?  Sucks to be fictional you.  I ask him to drop me at the bodega and he insists upon taking me home.  “Do I seem like a stalker or something to you?”  “No, not until you asked that question,” I thought.  I hopped out of the car so fast when he reached the curb to avoid him trying to kiss me yet again.  “Thanks this was fun, let me know when you make it home,” I said still trying not to be mean as I have been told in the past that I can be that way.  I scurried into the bodega and wandered around until I felt the coast was clear.  In fact I asked someone to peak out of the window and tell me if his car was there.

I called Myra when I got in, and gave her the rundown, and once again she accused me of being too picky.  Let me stop here and say to never listen to your friends if your gut tells you someone is a weirdo.  He text me that he made it home and asked if we could hang out again, and following Myra’s advice I said sure.  I went to shower and get ready for bed and came back to my phone to see that he had text me five times back to back inclusive of a recording of him singing the song “Don’t,” by Bryson Tiller.  The irony there is just next level.  I could barely get through the first ten seconds of this dreadful rendition of what was one of my favorite songs at the moment.  In his text he explained that although he knows I don’t like compliments I should know that I am a very beautiful person and that he controlled himself well by not kissing me because my lips look so irrresistable.  Face Palm.  Oh thank you so much kind sir for not accosting me with your mouth when it was obviously not welcomed.  I went to sleep in preparation for a boot camp with Follow The Lita at Fort Greene Park the next day.

That boot camp kicked my ass.  Post workout pain set in almost immediately, and when I got back to my phone, once again I had hella text messages from Johnny Bravo.  I text back the next day explaining that he seemed like a nice guy, but that I just don’t think it’s gonna work.  I got paragraphs of text messages in protest of my choice not to get to know him any further.  My favorite was: I would’ve showed you the real because that’s what you deserve.  I went out of my way to make you happy and show you a good time, and I didn’t give any negativity towards you.

So here’s the thing.  If I have only known you for six days, I shouldn’t have to explain to you why I’m not interested.  Just take the L and leave me alone.  Johnny Bravo text me for three subsequent days demanding to know what he did wrong and why I wasn’t interested before he finally got the point.  So once again, I gave the whole dating thing a shot and once again, it was an adventure to say the least.  On to the next I suppose.

 

A midnight brunch party seems like a good idea in theory until you factor in that the commute requires you to walk through a not so gentrified area in Harlem, wherein street harassment is at an all-time disappointing ass high.  What the hell has happened to the men in New York that they feel it is normal, nay acceptable to follow a woman in the dark because she didn’t respond to your “compliments” the way you wanted her to?  You know what, that’s another rant for another day.  So baby sis Chelsea and I are headed through a mosh pit of disrespect and subsequent fear of going to prison for shanking one of these “men” with obvious mommy issues to get to a midnight brunch party.  We worked hard that week and deserved a cute night out.  Well that didn’t happen.

Chelsea’s Story:

She and I both met this guy who we will call Stanley when we interned at Oscar de la Renta.  For the longest time we couldn’t tell if he went to our church, played for our team…was a straight man.  It’s kind of hard to tell when you work in fashion or the arts.  There’s always the question of: is he an eccentric artist or does he favor the masculine gender?  Anyway, Stanley had been making empty plans to hang out with her for months, and while he was attractive enough, his social awkwardness towards her was really off putting.  They would run into each other from time to time at one social gathering of Howard alum or another, but he never made a real effort to take her out or spend real time with her.  Fast forward to midnight brunch where he attempted for a third time to get her to go home with him.

My Story:

Chelsea wandered off to talk to Stanley the Weirdo as I so lovingly named him in my head during my sentence at Oscar de la Renta.  I was left to entertain a guy who she knew through another guy blah blah blah.  We shared a few commonalities namely that we were both from Atlanta, and both wanted to get me a little tipsy.  Things got creepy when he kept scaring off guys who came in our area as if they were trying to get at me.  Things got progressively creepier when he pretended not to know how to get back to his hotel room, and asked if he could come home with me.  I very politely sent him the link for google directions back to the Roosevelt Hotel and decided I was done for the evening.  Sir, that’s the beginning of a Law and Order SVU episode.  Young girl meets a seemingly nice guy at a party.  He buys her some drinks, cut to unsuspecting jogger discovering her body parts in a random park.  No thank you!  I don’t know you or even your last name, so what sick bitch made you feel that if you buy some cheap drinks you can ask to go home with her?  Apparently in all of my partying days at home in Atlanta, I was still somehow sheltered because I have never had that happen to me before and it’s supposedly a common thing.  Who knew?

Here’s Where Our Stories Ironically Converge:

The same sloppy fat drunk guy groped both of us at different parts of the night.  Again, the fear of prison time for taking this young man’s life loomed over my head.  Dear Black Men: Do better.

Moral of the Story:

By the time Labor Day weekend rolled around, we were collectively over the idea of a club or party.  We decided to do something mildly touristy and take the Staten Island Ferry to a Spanish restaurant that I made a mistake and found a few years ago.  This is where I met Johnny Bravo.

Do you ever have one of those days when you lay around and do nothing?  You sleep in late, and before you know it the sun has set. I spent that whole day Saturday binge watching 30 Rock and around 10:00 decided to go out and get food so that I wouldn’t feel like a complete loser.  While en route my friend, we’ll call her River, hit me up asking if I wanted to go to a trap music party in the city.  There are many things in this world that I love, but few things bless my spirit like ratchet music.  There’s just something about a Future song that makes me want to move back to Atlanta, become a stripper, date a drug dealer, and sell weave on Instagram, but I digress.  Anyway I forgo my late night meal and head to the city to a place called Pacha on like 10th Avenue.  Pacha looks like that typical club bikers go to in post Apocalyptic movies.  I’ve always wondered what’s up with that in those films.  The world has ended but you guys are still gonnna party?  Again I digress.

Pacha is a multi level warehouse that stages multiple parties on multiple floors and none of these parties are related, but you have to walk through each one to get to the party for which you came.  For example, floor one looked like a bunch of wealthy kids from California took their parent’s private jet for the night.  There were strobe lights, techno music, fog machines, and fake boobs as far as the eye could see.  

We finally made our way to said trap party and it was like everyone popped the same cocktail of hallucinogens all at once, because it was pure chaos.  Everyone was equally unattractive but in the same way.  It was as if we had walked into an incestuous family reunion.  We went to the bar knowing that the evening would require alcohol in order to get through it.  Just then across the way I see a guy wearing an Omega Psi Phi hoodie.  I’m not even the kind of person who is big on Greek life (in that sense) but you so rarely come across normal black men here that I was thrilled to see someone who looked human in this sea of drugged up 19 year olds.  River and I approached the guy who seemed nice enough.  We exchanged numbers, and what happened next ruined my life for like two weeks.  He turned his head to speak to someone revealing that he had a single gold hoop earring.

Is there a nice way to say to someone I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were wearing a hoop earring may I please delete my number from your phone?  I scurried off and told River it was time to go.  Just an aside that guy was a real creep.  In spite of me telling him like five times via text that I wasn’t interested he kept texting me asking when we were going to hang out.  I eventually blocked him.  

River headed to Harlem and I got on the Q train to head to Brooklyn.  As we approached the 14th Street Union Square stop, something told me to get off and get food.  Mind you I still haven’t eaten, but I said no it’s too late to eat I’ll just head home.  Three stops later the train comes to an abrupt screeching holt, so much so that I slide down the seat and hit the rail.  We are paused for about ten minutes.  As trash as the MTA is, this is rather unusual.  The train usually stops for maybe three to five minutes at the most but this long delay meant something was wrong.  At this point it is about 2 AM and everyone on the train looks like they’ve had a long night.  

Finally the train starts moving again and we have crossed the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn when the train comes to another screeching abrupt stop.  We are three stops away from mine, and we are halfway in and halfway out of a tunnel.  All of a sudden we see flashlights and police officers running alongside the train, and then the power on the train shuts off.  There I am in the dark with about 15 strangers in a horror movie scene.  

I think to myself oh ok so this is how I’m going to die: on a train in Brooklyn alongside a homeless schizophrenic woman who is having an intense conversation with herself.  Some brave soul opens the train door to find out what happened.  A few stops back a man shot someone and ran down into the station to allude police by jumping in front of the train.  They stopped the train in order to recover the body.  We are all confused, disgusted, and disturbed knowing that there are police officers looking for human remains under the train we’re on.  After a couple of hours they send along another train to attach to ours so that we can walk through the tunnel and come out at the previous stop.  At this point it is about 4 or 5 AM and my phone is dead.

We all walk to the front of the train only to be met by the quintessential New York police detective.  Overweight, balding with greasy hair, and a really unpleasant disposition.  He looked like he had been married and divorced like four times and was poor from paying alimony, and now he’s a loose cannon on the job taking out his frustration on unsuspecting citizens.

Dear Angry Police Detective,

If you’re reading this everything will be ok.  You will find love again.

He demands that before anyone gets off the train we all provide him with our contact information so we can be questioned.  Sir, we were all on the train, what the hell do you think we know about what transpired?  In the most dramatic form of white privilege I’ve ever seen, some white man explains his constitutional rights and how he doesn’t have to do a damn thing.  Somehow this worked and we were all allowed off of the train.

Dear Angry White Man,

If you are reading this, thank you for exercising your privilege on that early morning, because I was tired.

I now have to figure out how to get home when I see that there is a 24 hour Dunkin Donuts.  I go in and plug up my phone to request an Uber.  Twenty minutes later I am picked up by a middle aged Jamaican man who was very nice.  As we are headed towards my house there is a fight in the middle of the street between a taxi driver, an irate woman wearing a tragic lacefront, and a police officer.  Apparently the woman kicked out the window of the taxi and the police officers were trying to subdue her to arrest her for accosting the window of said car.  My Uber driver swerves around this commotion and I’m just wondering if I’ve gone through some sort of time portal, or if there’s a full moon because this night has been insane.  But don’t worry, it got a little more creepy.  My Uber driver starts talking about how we are living in our last days and how God is coming back to reclaim the world.  I think to myself oh so this is how I’m going to die.  Finally, I arrive home and run into my house where I am actually still starving but it is 6 AM at this point and all I can do is thank God that I’m alive and question the entire night.

So let this be a lesson to you.  If you are hungry, eat.

It’s late.  Really late.  I’m driving home and I shouldn’t be.  I glance at myself in my rearview mirror.  I wonder if anyone looking could see the hurt in my eyes, the sinking feeling of disappointment in my gut.  I’m hurt.  Bad.  I want to pull over and just cry for a while but that’s way too dramatic to do on Spring Street at this hour. I turn on my Pandora hoping it will drown out my thoughts, and to no avail.  I look back at myself in the mirror and my hair is still perfect.  Middle part, bone straight 18 inches of Eurasian weave laid for the gawds.  My brows are perfect and my red lips accent my blue dress perfectly.  I tossed my heels in the back and I’m driving barefoot trying to think of somewhere to go to drown my sorrows.  I don’t want to drink anymore.  No liquor can comfort the disappointment I feel.  Not in him but in myself, because I knew it was a bad idea to go there in the first place.  I’m replaying the events in my head.

As soon as I stepped in the door something felt off.  Call it woman’s intuition or being skillfully perceptive, but the vibe was all wrong.  That should’ve been enough for me to leave but I fought through it anyway.  We planned to see each other my last night in town.  I was looking forward to this for days and now I’m here and something is wrong.  He can sense it, but I just say nothing is wrong because I don’t want to ruin the evening we had planned.  I sat on his bed like I always do when I come over and I look to my right.  There they are.  There lies the reason I felt so off.  The biggest, cheapest pair of Forever 21 hoop earrings you would ever want to see.  They are tarnished to that rusted bronze color that all cheap jewelry turns to after a while, and I get that feeling.  You know how your stomach feels on a roller coaster when it drops, or that flushed feeling where your whole body gets hot when you’re going through rough turbulence on an airplane?  That.  I felt hot and sick all at once.  I wanted to cry and scream and throw shit everywhere, but after a person disappoints you so many times you grow numb.  Time stood still as he came in the room and saw what I saw.  It was that moment between two people where nothing is said but all is understood.  All I could do was gather my things, put my heels back on and leave.  He was talking but I couldn’t even register what was being said.  “I didn’t have sex with her she just stayed over after she drove me home,” he tried to explain.  “I just can’t stay here.  I have to go,”  I replied softly.  The fight in me was gone.  The rage I felt turned into a deep sorrow and regret all in one second and I just needed to get out.  His protests to get me to stay fell on deaf ears.

I’m riding in circles through midtown trying to think of somewhere to go or something to do and I feel lost.  So I call the one person who I can always call in moments like this.  He knows me better than I know myself.  He loves me like no one else.   Since I was 18 he’s been the person I call when I’m in the most trouble.  He rescued me from myself time and time again, and I need him to save me now.  “Hey can you talk?” I say in a low voice just above a whisper.  “I have company but what’s up?  Are you ok?”  I know what that means.  That means the girl I gave him away to is there and I hate that I called this late.  I moved away to chase my dreams and gave him away to someone who could be what he needed.  In this moment I feel completely alone.  “I’m ok.  I’ll talk to you later,” I hang up before he can protest.  I finally give up and hit 85 south to go home and I pray no one is awake so I can just go to sleep.  This is all too much for one night.

I get a text: Muffin, are u ok?  I’m worried about you.  Do you need to come over?

I want to say yes I need you, but I can’t be that selfish.  I text back: no I’ll be ok I just need to figure some stuff out ttyl.

He replies: are you sure?  You know I’m always here for you.  We’ll talk tomorrow if you want i love you.

I love you more, I text back and put my phone on Do Not Disturb.

In three hours I have to catch a flight back to New York and tuck all of this away.  It’s late.  My hair is perfect.  My makeup is flawless, but my heart is completely broken.  Sleep.