For my single ladies
Y’all would bear witness to this, looking pretty is a tricky business. You get up one morning, I mean to say, with the lids puffed up, the cheeks threatening to take over the whole face, the hair refusing to budge; you walk out, in something you found at the bottom of your drawer (if you have one) that you aren’t sure is even clean; may not have even taken a shower — just wiped your under arms with soapy towel, or sniffed and felt you could avoid detection. The sun starts assaulting your eyes; your face feels more oily by the minute, your whole demeanor is pissed off, and defiant = a picture of misery. And you notice…. that men … w.e.r.e… looking at you! Yeah, the kind of men who aren’t in their late senior years, in wheel-chairs or asking if you could spare a change for the bus. They are looking at you [in a very meaningful way, like you were a new ice-cream flavor they have been looking forward to sample, the japanese ‘eel’ at the door of a Geisha’s ‘cave’ poised to enter and explore] while trying to cross the street (putting themselves in danger). And it’s not just one man. It’s more than one man. It’s the bus-driver who gives his “Well hello?” a tilt that makes you wanna ask him to be a good boy and watch the road now, it’s the cute wild haired nerd sprawled, along with his laptop, infront of your seat, it’s the short “professor” with the big nose and face full of hair who is waiting for his coffee before you, with his body titled to one side, gravity, hisside-pack and the need to respond incase you said something.. or something funny came up.. pulling him to the side. They are all looking at you, looking at you like you are a dog (a bitch really) in heat. And like they are vultures (dogs really) with the same heart beating in them, the same pulsating nerve, the same desire and the same intention. Like they are members of some blood-sniffing cult, glassy eyed and almost robotic; intent on attack and conquer. As if something on you is activating some — signal, sending some kind of sun beams into the world, outer world… that rare planet men belong to, goofy and stepping on one another’s feet, the planet where nothing really makes sense. Like you are grass and they are the earth. Like you are water and they are perched. Like you are a hot.dishy.diva they can’t wait to see in her birthday suit.
And then there is that other day. That day that’s more often than not. That day which is everyday for most of my single ladies. That day in which nothing you do, nothing you wear, no type of hair-style or hair color seems to work in your favor. That day in which you are a rose, in full bloom, all out and about, ready to be seen and appreciated [take me, you heart is entreating, feel me, love me], and everybody seems to skip their heels and head for the horizon, wary of the thorns.. or the dead cells underneath. That day in which all your life feels futile. In which you know you’d die alone. That this was it, innit, this is what 42/45/47/60 feels like. The day in which everybody looks desirable and taken. That all things come in pair, especially the good ones. They are married, or gay; or both. That morning in which no one, save for the odd-ball balding white guy seems to notice you and him like he is resenting you, like he didn’t have a choice in the matter, like he wants to protest that he could have done better if given half the chance.
It’s tricky; in that what you felt would work, never seems to work. And what you felt would make you stand out like a sore thumb, for some reason, turns into the beaconing light he-men-beings can’t help but follow.
And then there are those days in which you don’t really care. These days may or may not be proceeded by a morning of dragging your weight onto the scale and being pleasantly surprised by the Lbs that are no longer on your curves. Or when your hair seems to suddenly give up the protest and just does what you want it to do. And/or when you take a long look at your reflection in the mirror and see that woman you know yourself to be. That woman, for better or worse, that you recognize as the you that u know is in there, too shy of critisism/betrayal/failure/whathaveu to come out and play. And when you realize that she isn’t half as bad as you, in your darkest moments, thought she was. That she wasn’t half as bad as he made you feel she has become. That she wasn’t half as bad as you saw her using other people’s mirrors (faces/body sizes/values). That day, nothing you wear makes a difference. Nothing you did or didn’t put on, calories included. You walk out, with your head held high, looking the world in the face and not.giving.a.rat’s.ass. You feel the sun, and it’s warmth. You see the buildings, and their architectural wonder. You look at people, couple, loving their love/their smile/their genuine desire to be/appear/do good. You wish you could bottle down this feeling and take it out, for a sniff, when the skies get pregnant with anger and hopelessness. It’s the sanest place you can be emotionally. It’s really the truth. [A truth that isn’t relative or tinted by subjectivity/politics/religion/race] That when it comes down to it, nothing and no one can beat that, the fact that you were looking and approving.
If only it lasts!
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