A Swift Kick In The Ass

Have you ever been sleeping so deeply for so long that you didn't even realize you weren't conscious? Today I received a wake up call that was so true and so on time that it made me disgusted about how much time I've spent oversleeping. I suppose there are times when only someone who knows you best can wake you up. While I was asleep, others tried to softly call my name, gently nudge me, or even rub my back with the softest of hands to try to bring me to the land of the living. None of those attempts worked. I suppose everyone thought I'd just stay asleep but all that changed today when someone who knows me best woke me up by clanging cymbals, ripping the covers off my bed of self-loathing, and kicking me square in the ass. I can say it was one of the harshest awakenings I've ever had, but at least now I'm with the living and ready to experience what I've been depriving myself of while making love to my sheets of doubt, disgust, disappointment, and self-judgment. I guess that's what it takes sometimes; a real friend who knows you inside and out to tell you that you're being and idiot by staying asleep while everyone else is awake and partaking in life's good things. Sometimes everything that's wrong feels so powerful that burrowing into the blankets and resting my head upon an extra soft pillow seems to be the best solution. Unfortunately, no matter how long you sleep, naptime is just a band aid for the gaping wound. Sure, I'm still a little groggy and I don't think I'll be able to fully function until I've had some breakfast, but at least I'm not asleep anymore. Good morning.

So What Do You Have In The Short, Curvy,Busty, Bottom-Heavy Variety?

So this is the time of year when I always get excited thinking I'm going to come up on the swimsuit of the century. Every damn magazine has a cover headline telling readers all over the world that contained within the pages, in between all the ads that remind a girl how fat and unattractive she really is, is the definitive list of swimsuits for every body type. Ignoring all previous year's disappointments, I grab the magazine off the rack, and flip through the pages until I get to said article. Without fail, I'm angry and disgusted as soon as I see the options. Listed there's always, top heavy (yeah, that's me, check!), bottom heavy (yeah, that's me too, check!), big thighs (sigh, yeah, that's me too, check!), and petite (yep, that's me too. I'm only 4' 11", check!). While it certainly sounds like I'm hitting the jackpot, I'm not, because all of these are separate categories. Apparently there is a rule that says I can only be one of these but not a combination of many. Apparently these articles are telling me that I'm not allowed to go near any water for any reason other than bathing because my body is way too complicated for a swimsuit. Unfortunately, summer isn't the only time of year the media plays with my emotions. It also happens curing the cold seasons when I purchase the magazines swearing they can help me find the perfect pair of jeans for my body type. Alas, I'm always disappointed by these fictitious stories as well. It I let the media and fashion industry decide what's best for my body type, I'd be walking around in a house dress or hospital scrubs. Surely, there must be some way to take all my "attributes" and combine them to make one fabulous article about how a petite, curvy, top heavy, bottom heavy, thick thighed woman can fine the perfect jeans and swimsuit. Hopefully I'll see that day before jeans and swimsuits go out of style.

Plus Size Penance

Even though I'm constantly working on it, these days I teeter between the "average" size world and the "plus-size" world. I've been fortunate enough to be able to avoid the plus size stores so far but am deathly afraid that I'll gain three more pounds and be introduced to a world I don't want to meet. My main fear isn't the health issues that sometimes come along with weight gain. My real concern is the ugly, matronly, tent-like clothes I see in stores and online "made especially for the plus-sized girl". I mean, as if enough pain and inconvenience isn't already attached to being overweight, now we are being punished by being forced to wear the ugliest clothes money can buy. When I look back in history at what used to be considered attractive, I can't help but wonder what happened. When did a nice round belly and full breasts become detriments instead of amazing attributes? Over time what was once beautiful has turned into something ugly, undesirable, and deserving of some of the most hideous apparel anyone has ever seen? I mean, aren't the sneers and rejection enough? Can the plus sized gal at least be allowed to look cute during her discomfort? I really don't think that's too much to ask. It seems to me it's a lot more difficult to attempt staying under the radar when dressed attractively. It's kind of hard to be low key while wearing a tent-shaped top coupled with what appear to be your grandmother's elastic waist pants off the Sears sale rack. I've often considered the possibility of designing pretty clothes for big women but I have no artistic talents and I don't know that clothes can be designed from stick figure drawings. Alas, I suppose my only option at this point is to stay on the treadmill with as much diligence as possible all the while hoping I can make it back into the junior's section and my dignity. A girl can dream.

When A Little Bump and Grind Goes Bad

Since the initial surfacing of the dreaded R. Kelly video tape and his subsequent acquittal of all charges, I've had quite a few internal and external conversations about his situation. Sure, I had all the obvious conversations about how disgusting he is, how he is a child predator, and I even made a firm decision to not buy anymore of his music because I just couldn't see me helping to pay someone's legal fees when he is on trial for child pornography. I guess you could say I went through all the normal righteous indignations. Having said that, my attention turned to less traveled trains of thought. I wonder why A) I wasn't angry when he married Aaliyah and B) although he is just as wrong as wrong can be, what are we going to do about the thought process of the young girls who think it's okay to have sex with a grown man?

I wonder if it was the sexy mystique, the gyrating hips, that one covered up eye, and the fact that she told me that age wasn't nothin' but a number that made me feel like Aaliyah was grown up enough to marry a too grown man. When I first got word of the nuptials my initial and seemingly semi-permanent reaction was shock. I knew she was only fourteen which was way below the legal marrying age and I knew he was far from fourteen yet something in me allowed it to be shocking but not anger inducing. Why didn't I get pissed off at him for sleeping with an underage girl knowing all that I knew at that time? How could I be so ignorant as to let a few sensual dance moves and a little double entendre keep me from missing out on my opportunity to get on my soap box to preach about how unbelievably disgusting this man was for preying on the affections of a child? I guess I, like many others, got caught up in the hype. Chuck D told me not to believe it, but I failed to listen. R. Kelly didn't marry a mature, hip, sexy, sensual, talented, young woman. He married a child. I should've been livid but I wasn't. I was too busy liking R. Kelly. I was too busy swaying my hips from side to side, humming his melodies, watching his videos, and thinking about how I wanted to try out everything he was singing about to be pissed off by the fact that he married someone younger than my then, twenty year old self. Somehow I doubt that I was the only one who forgot to get mad. The media wasn't mad. BET wasn't mad. None of my friends were mad. We were just shocked that her parents ok'd something so grown up. I guess we were too caught up and maybe even too young to be angry. Somehow I think had we not been so wrapped up in his charisma, we could have saved a few more young girls from the worst kind of bump and grind. I suppose I have to be somewhat fair though. After all, he didn't do what he did without willing participants.

Something is happening with our young girls. Things are clearly amiss when a young girl willingly sleeps with a grown man and thinks it's the thing to do. What method of child rearing failed here? While I think it is unfortunate that he will not be imprisoned for his wrongdoings, I am mostly concerned about the mental prison that has captured these young girl's minds. Perhaps I'm a square, but at fourteen, I wasn't thinking about letting anyone in my pants but I sure as hell wasn't thinking about letting a grown man in my pants. Hell, at fourteen I didn't even know any grown man outside of the ones who shared my DNA. Who are these mothers and fathers and grandmothers and older siblings that are convincing these children that they can do whatever they want with their bodies even if it will cause them permanent damage? I can imagine the words of the mommas as they send their daughters out like sheep to the slaughter; "Girl you better use what you got to get what you want". What happened along life's path they has made it acceptable for a child who should be at softball practice to instead skip that and go to some grown man's house for a little afternoon delight? How did this one particular girl know what to do and execute it better than I ever could? It frightens me that R. Kelly didn't have to pursue these girls. Often times, they came to him with the full knowledge of how he got down. See, while I was too busy not being mad at R. Kelly, the babies were taking notes on what they needed to do to hook up with him. So I'm wondering what the hell we have done wrong in the child-rearing arena that has led us to this point? Just as much as he needs to be locked up and counseled, we need our daughters to get the help they need. We must go back to that place where a young girl's body was sacred and pure and her thoughts were of school and sports and maybe even the cute boy in her 3rd period class. We have to get back to the place where little girls were little girls and not babies dressed in grown woman's clothing learning grown woman lessons at ten years old. That's the place I'm from and it has sustained me well into my thirties so I can guarantee that it's a good place from which to be. Now I just need to know how we can get back there taking our babies with us...

Today I'm Conjuring Up Old Will Smith

On my way to work this morning I wondered if anyone besides me remembers Fresh Prince's (yeah, Fresh Prince, not Will Smith) song, "You Saw My Blinker, Bitch". It's what I was mumbling in the car this morning as I realized how much I hate my morning commute and how much my residual grumpiness from the a.m. drive seeps into my attitude when I arrive at work. When work was a place I could reach by public transportation, I would arrive at my building smiling and ready to start the day. Now that I have to travel fifteen miles which takes thirty to forty minutes, I find that I am angry and frustrated upon arrival. Driving to work causes me to have to deal with some of the things I hate like smokers, last minute lane changers, and wiper enthusiasts.

First off, smoking is stupid. It's dangerous. It smells funny. It gives the smoker a most unattractive look between the yellow teeth, blackened lips, and smelly, brown, fingertips. We all know this and even still, lots of people smoke. What I don't understand is why the person driving in front of me feels the need to take a puff then old the cigarette out of the window while driving as if I want to smell it. If you enjoy the increased likelihood of some type of cancer, by all means, be my guest. However, if you can't even stand the smell long enough to smoke a cigarette while driving your car, what makes you think I want to smell it? Don't be a punk. Roll up all your windows, take lots of deep breaths, and enjoy the hot, stifling, stench yourself. It's times like these that I'm glad I don't carry a weapon with bullets in my car. Of course, the smoker isn't the only annoyance. There' s also the last minute lane changers.

How can someone who drives the same way to work EVERYDAY forget EVERYDAY that he/she needs to get off at the same exit each time? If the exit is only half a mile away, why is he in the fast lane frantically mouthing out curse words and gesturing so that everyone else will let him get over? He knew that his your exit before he even left the house! Why didn't he get over a mile back? Sheesh. These people act like their emergency is my problem. I've never cared if a stranger missed her exit. Of course this person isn't the only one on the road.

There's also the windshield wiper fluid driver on the freeway in the morning. I like a clean windshield as much as the next person but I don't like my windshield to be "cleaned" as a result of spray from someone else's car. I respect that the other driver wants to tidy up a bit while going eighty miles per hour, however, I'd like to know is she wouldn't mind going ahead and saving that activity for surface street activity. I'm tired of washing my car and windshield only to have it dirtied up by someone obsessed with cleaning her own car. Damnit, enough is enough.

I spend much of my time in the car angry. This was not a problem when I rode the light rail. Of course then, I didn't have all of this stuff to put in my blog...

I'm Not Sorry To Hear That At All

I recently decided to remove the phrase, "I'm sorry to hear that" from my vocabulary as it applies to those I love. It's a simple phrase I've always used in sort of an absent-minded sort of way to try to describe my sorrow for someone else's misfortune. However, upon review and consideration, I've realized that this phrase doesn't really mean what I thought it did. Saying, "I'm sorry to hear that" implies that I am regretful that someone who I most likely care about bothered me by sharing his or her grief with me. To me the phrase really says, "I wish you hadn't bothered telling me this so I could avoid being hurt or possibly inconvenienced by your problem". That isn't the message I want to give my loved ones. I want them to feel comfortable coming to me even in their grief, with the knowledge that I will provide empathy or sympathy (whichever is needed) regarding the situation they are experiencing. The last thing I want is for those I love to feel as if coming to me when they are hurt is a burden. To avoid all of this, I pledge to stop using this phrase in this situation. I'm not at all sorry to hear that. As a matter of fact, thank you for having enough love for me to trust me to help ease your pain.

I will, however, continue to use this phrase where it applies.

Boss: I accidentally deleted the thirty page document you typed for me yesterday.

Me: I'm sorry to hear that.

See, it really does still have it's place! I suppose what I'm really trying to say is that more consideration should be given to the things we let fly out of our mouths. I don't want to be sorry to hear much else.

I Know You See Me. Stop Lying.

While I think it sounds sort of nice to say, "I don't even notice color when I meet people. All I see are human beings", it's pure hogwash. I'm sure it makes whoever says it feel politically correct, fair, and non-racist, but really it just makes a person sound stupid. I believe one of the reasons we are all made differently is so that we can enjoy and celebrate each other's differences. I don't want anyone to look at me and not notice I'm a black woman. I'm not ashamed of it by any means and I don't need anyone else to be sorry about it. I love my beautiful black skin, my wide nose, my kinky hair, my ample curves, and my incredibly rich ancestry. I love looking outside of the "norm" and I don't have any problem with anyone else noticing it. As a matter of fact, I welcome it. I'm sure I'm going against the grain, as usual, but I don't think we can notice how much alike we are as humans until we realize how unique we are ethnically.

Noticing one's color has never been the problem in this world. The problem is noticing it, then assigning our negative thoughts and misconceptions to it. Rarely is a person of color viewed and then admired in America. Usually the darker the color of one's skin, the darker the negative connotations. That's where the ultimate mistake is made. I love it when I'm out and I see an ethnically diverse crowd of people. I admire the beauty of other cultures and have always wished the same admiration would apply to me and those who look like me.

It's time we stop pretending don't see color by lying out loud. It's also time we start looking at other people and recognizing who they are without trying to put them in the neat box we've picked out just for them and all those we think are like them. It's time to be color conscious while being blind averse to ignorance.