For whatever reason (and that reason could very well be that despite my belief to the contrary, I am, in fact, not as unique as I want to believe and I’m the typical woman in her 30s), I’ve been preoccupied with love, romance, being single, staying single and everything that comes with that. I guess since I am at the beginning of my “personal new year” (thanks Amadeo), I’ve chosen to take stock of what’s what in the universe. Romance is by no means the biggest fish of mine that needs frying, but it’s still a pretty big fish. A big fish that jumps in and out of my life boat at the most inopportune moments.
I’m not sure when this happened, but one day I looked up and the majority of my close friends and family were either married or engaged. The delightful (sarcasm alert) thing about being 32 and single is the “encouragement.” It sort of goes like this:
Girl, you don’t let people sweat you about meeting Mr. Right. It’s not the 19th century, people have goals. [Brief pause.] But you know Mr. Right is right around the corner, right? [Am I supposed to be avoiding or on the lookout for this muthafucka? And why is he around the corner? Dude gonna rob me? I can’t afford a new iPod right now, so I might have to throw the dogs on sun. Happy Andre?]
This conversation may also go:
There are lots of single women these days [hearing about other lonely bitches is somehow supposed to make me feel better], and they live fulfilling lives [I’m sorry, are they paraplegics?]. It doesn’t mean something is wrong with you. [Brief pause.] We need to figure out why you’re not getting a man. [Is something wrong with me or not?]
So lately, a few friends have recommended that I join match.com, et al. I won’t say that I never considered it, but this time, I actually pondered the suggestion. I mean i inquired of my peeps, I searched my own soul and all that good stuff. That shit creeps me the fuck out my damie.
First, I don’t like a person getting to know me for the specific purpose of dating me. I’m really not into the “I like all that shit you like, let’s fuck,” game. To actually go on record as “looking”, eh, there’s something I just can’t do. Not because I’m fooling myself. I consider myself open to the possibility of a relationship, but I’m most assuredly not looking for one. The entire process of searching for a significant other actually gives me a headache. I think the biggest mistake people make when going through the whole selecting a partner thing is treating every member of the desired sex as a “potential.” Are you shitting me? Sit your hungry ass down. I know a lot of dudes. I flirt with quite a few of them. That’s what I do. However, the number of them I would actually date is incredibly small. Before you get your drawers in a bunch, I’m not saying this because they don’t “measure up” or anything like that. I happen to be honest about who I am. I have a friend that is intelligent, handsome, and we like a lot of the same shit. He’s also neat to Adrian Monk proportions. Yeah, no. Ugly truth fact check: not every pair of nice people will make a nice couple.
Second, I’m smart. Now, I’m sure there are some who will read this and think I’m feeling myself. There may even be those of you who know me that will say, “Bitch, you ain’t even that smart.” [If you’re smart, you’ll keep shit like that to yourself, because though I’m trying to grow up, the tongue is still vicious and the rabbit punch is still ill.] I don’t care if you across the table or the country, I can sniff shady out in a New York minute. Now, I won’t always call you out on it, because I believe in letting grown people be grown, and chastising a grown ass man is probably one of the most boring and pointless activities a woman could ever engage in. I also think everyone has the right to go through some shit, and I’m not gonna jump on your back and sweat you over it. But I will say this, I have consulted seven males whose opinion I value, and EACH of them essentially said, “Well, you’ve gotta know that it going to be a little more difficult for you because you’re smart.” I once called bullshit on this dude that was actively attempting to be in close contact with the luscious. I was cool with it, but I felt the need to let him know honesty is the best policy with me because I’m smarter than the average bear. He actually snorted, “Why I always gotta get caught up with smart females?”
Since those two things don’t make things hard enough, I’m a substance chick. I had two girlfriends that decided they wanted boyfriends that were cute and wore Guccis. That’s it. Seek and ye shall find. They also found a WHOLE bunch of bullshit. He’s wearing Guccis living in his mama’s house dummy. Guess what happened when they had their own cribs? Shit was going undone because they were still stuck on wearing Guccis. Not so cute when he’s dipping in the rent money, huh?
And oh my god, the excuses. I think my favorite is the phoney self-deprication. This usually happens after a dude hits you with the ill shock and awe, then just falls off. No warning, no nothing. They come at you with every thing in the book. My favorite (and the only reason I’m quoting it is because it was posted to me as a blog comment) to date is, “Just because someone doesn’t love you as you would like, doesn’t mean they don’t love you with all they have.” What?! No…for real, what does that even mean? And for all the cats that are still working through their last heartbreak, their commitment phobia, their Peter Pan complexes, fear of their inability to love me the way I need, and all the other things that don’t become issues until months after embarking upon a relationship, what even go there? For the journey? Miss me with that shit. There are tons of chicks that sling their snatch like Mardi Gras beads, and they’re everywhere. Get at them. I’m cool with being along for the ride. It’s the surprise detours and sudden requests to get the fuck out of the car that get me to start beefin.
The cherry on this is that life is laden in shades of gray. It would be easy for me to say that this guy is bad or that guy is lousy. Unfortunately, it’s not that simple, and it’s counterproductive. However, I can say that shit is tiresome.
So, you wanna know how come Tootie?
The answer is simple: