30 Doesn’t Matter

I started this blog 30 weeks before my 30th birthday, for the purpose of keeping myself accountable for the 30 pounds I wanted to lose (the last of the 80 I gained while pregnant) and to push myself to write outside of what I do for my job. I lost 18 pounds, but I didn’t keep up with the writing. I decided to come back to it for this last month to lament the end of my 20s while I still can.

Yesterday, I learned that one of my oldest friends died. She was taking an amazing overseas trip, fell very ill and passed a few short days later. Her birthday is one month and one day after mine. She’s not going to turn 30.

It doesn’t seem like a good use of time to fret over a birthday now, does it?

Here is the disclaimer I posted the last time one of my friends died: You really ought to wait until folks who should get a phone call about a death get that phone call before posting on Facebook, or hitting someone on Twitter to confirm. I am glad that a dear friend was able to reach me before I saw the “RIP” messages making their way up the news feed. I know this is how we have come to express grief, but unless you are sure that parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, boos, ex-boos, linesisters/linebrothers and close friends are aware of the person’s passing, DO NOT POST TO SOCIAL MEDIA.

This woman, who I am not naming for the slight chance that this might reach someone who hasn’t been appropriately notified, had one of the most beautiful, purest spirits I have ever known. I could easily compile a list of 20 people who it should have been instead of her, and if it weren’t for #MiniMilah, I would put myself atop that list. I am trying not to be mad at God. I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason, but this sort of thing is why my nightly prayer is usually, “Please, God, don’t take my baby. Please, I love her so much!”

We weren’t as close as we were as kids, and a lot of that has to do with my failure to maintain friendships across physical distance. Yet, every time I saw her, she had the same sweet smile and the same laugh and the same ability to love more than most people on this Earth. She was the truest ride-or-die homegirl ever. She was fine as hell, and knew it, but didn’t really know it. She committed herself to improving the lives of her people. She loved Mystikal and Crucial Conflict and had the most perfect “Chicago is kinda country, huh?” accent. We could go years without seeing each other in person, and that love never changed.

All that I understand about death is that we can’t live forever and it’s inevitable and it hurts more often than not. This young woman lived fearlessly and beautifully for 29 years and I am going to try to reflect the values by which she existed as best as I possibly can in her honor. And I’m going to work on being a better friend (sister, daughter, soror…) so that the love I have for the people in my life is not something that is just in my heart, but something they can feel and see often.

I am not in need of, or even deserving of, condolences. Her sister, her ships, her parents, her BFFs and the people closest to her are the ones to keep in mind. I’m lucky to have even known her at all.

Father’s Day Pain

I never thought I’d be impacted by Father’s Day Traumatic Syndrome, but here we are.

My story is not unique, but it’s not necessarily the most common one among those daddy day tales of woe. It’s not even a tale of woe, more like a tale of “This is the shit that happened, life is complicated. Keep it moving, champ.” My father and I have a great relationship. Despite my parents not being together, he has been a consistent presence in my life since I was born. My daugher and her father are poised to have an even better relationship than that. He gets her a couple of days each week—-I think I spent a couple of days at my dad’s house once, at 16, and I was pissed that I had to do it. I’m more likely to fight with him about him having more time with her than I am to find myself faced with him being unavailable to care for her. We are not friends, and nor shall we ever be. But this co-parenting thing, we have managed to do well.

(I’m sure someone has a prayer or a thought about us ‘healing’ or becoming friends and I just want you to know from the bottom of my heart that I haven’t a single damn to give, not one, about what you think about that. I’m not being rude, or maybe I am. I just need to remind the world that writing about personal stuff is not an invitation for advice. I’m just sharing and connecting.)

My hurt on this holiday comes from a few, related places. For one, the sight of ‘in tact’ families has become somewhat difficult for me. Seeing cute little families with cute little kids having brunch and shit together on these holidays is just…painful. I didn’t go into motherhood thinking that I would end up in this position; I foolhardily and full-heartedly believed that we were going to work things out and that this was the family God wanted me to have. No regrets, but it’s not easy.

As most of you (three of the five people reading this) know, my ex is now married. My daughter is being exposed to an ‘in tact’ family unit sooner than I could provide one for her. This sickens me to my core on many levels and I fear the possibility of her coming to understand that society approves of her dad’s household more than her mother’s, and that she might think of that one to be the superior of her two families. I am still optimistic that I will provide a step-father and additional siblings for her, but I can’t run to the first man who’s willing just to save myself the indignity of being the solo parent.

I speak highly of my experiences as #MiniMilah’s mother, of co-parenting in a way that has allowed me to have a rich, meaningful life that compliments the one that I have with her and of being able to give the middle finger to those who believe that single motherhood is a gloom, doom and shame parade that is sexless, romance free and made valuable only by the presence of the child. But I don’t want anyone to ever think that I am not disappointed in myself for not doing things in the order in which EYE wanted to. I throw shade at the judgmental Future Mary Janes who click ‘like’ on my daughter’s IG while gagging at my choices and I also know that today’s “happy home” may very well be 2016’s divorce battle royale. But motherhood is hard no matter where you do it and I have less help than someone who has a partner in the home. Honestly, I don’t know how I’d survive if I didn’t have two days off a week from mom duty. But good lives are not always easy ones, I’m just fortunate to love the one I have.

If the presence of these good dads in my life isn’t enough to stop the sting of Father’s Day, I cannot imagine what the holiday looks for to a woman who’s child’s father is completely disengaged from the parenting process, or a child who’s dad is a deliberate ghost. These situations are not the definitive Black fatherhood narrative, but they are too common to ignore. I actively avoid social media on Father’s Day because it is absolutely heartbreaking to see how many people are hurting, and how many other people choose to dismiss that hurt just to get those jokes off (or, perhaps, to hide their own.)

My story hasn’t been written yet. I distance myself from those single moms who have 20 years of no dating, no love and no fun outside of their kids who want to embrace me and say “I know what you are going though,” because they don’t. I am not now, nor will I ever be, anything like them. I won’t have a good family Father’s Day in 2014, but I will have a good time partying with friends. I know that building the family unit I want is going to be difficult to create, but I feel capable.

I hope that everyone else who is feeling incomplete this weekend will find what they are looking for, or as much of it as they can grasp.

I Just Gave Up on This Blog

This blog is a miserable failure for a myriad of reasons. I am truly, truly sorry to the 4 people who really wanted to see me become a consistent blogger again. Maybe one day. Life is…much different than it was in the days when I’d crank out 5 blog posts a week, plus a bunch of freelance writing. It is very, very different.

I’ll admit that the events of the past few months killed a little of my writing mojo, which typically requires me to be either extremely fired up or in my irreverent, good-spirited space. It did not feel good to be attacked by the RNC and large right-wing media outlets. It did not feel good to see Black media publications/professionals who typically have no problem mining my work for, eh, inspiration either go radio silent or use my experience for lazily-produced clickbait. And we won’t even talk about the other thing. I suppose “out-of-context” is the next context, but I’m not a fan.

Also, personal blogging and sharing your life with the world in this bizarre social media universe of ours opens you up to a lot of nonsense that I don’t suffer as easily as I once did. The projection, the over-inflated sense of familiarity people have with you because they are your FB friend or Twitter chum…are you sure you guys want to be Y-list internet famous? It’s not as fun as it looks. People talk wild reckless to you, but unlike most real celebrities, you don’t have a pile of money to roll around in for comfort. I’m a regular person with a cool job who lives in the ‘hood. Don’t let a blue check fool you. I’m fortunate, but I’m still “The Beautiful Struggler,” trust and believe.

There’s also a bit of culture fatigue to blame. I’m tired of rap (I’m not tired of watching the rap bloggers imploding on Twitter, though! Keep banging!) and I’m so very tired of Tan America shenanigans. I had the misfortune of seeing “Holler If You Hear Me” on Broadway this week and I’m really unable to can, do and even anymore. Everything is terrible. I did write something about stupid Bieber stupidity and the controversial-for-what breastfeeding pic.

This is my little “I’m still here, but you know, I’m on some bull” check in. Oh, I started this blog when I was trying to lose 30 pounds before my 30th in July, right? 12 to go. Pray for me! I’m going to write something about Father’s Day AKA Black Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder Day later this week. I’m terrified. Stay tuned!

Also, please consider copping one of my “Free Black Woman” or "Free Black Man" shirts! Support Black entrepreneurship, mayne. Likes and RTs don’t pay no bills, ya heard? You heard.

15 Thoughts on Thoughts

1) “Life. I wonder, will it take me under?” The answer is an undeniable yes, as we all die. Life delivers you to it’s end. It took me 20 years, but I got you, Nas!

2) I bought my first nice TV. Three months ago. It was sitting in a box in the kitchen until last night, at which point a dear friend helped me hook it up. It is a smart TV. You can’t hook up this smart TV to your cable without an HDMI cord, which retails for about six dollars and is sold separately. WHAT IS SMART ABOUT THAT? WHY NOT JUST TACK SIX MORE DOLLARS ON TO THE PRICE? ITS NOT LIKE THE THING COST 20 BUCKS AND YOU’D NOTICE.

3) Been annoyed with Pharrell for the better part of the last two months and still average 3 “Happy” spins a day in my household. Thank you, #MiniMilah. (She has a special hand wave for the song, it’s kinda like “the Howard Hand.”) We also listen to “Umi Says,” “Get Up, Stand Up” and “Four Hundred Years” every morning. The young one was born woke.

4) Speaking of motherhood, do you know how many times I’ve been chatting with a guy at a party or bar and a female friend/acquaintance of mine has walked up and gushed “How’s the BABY?” More times that it should have happened, which is more than zero. I’m not buying this as accidental every time. If you don’t know my relationship to the gentleman in question, please allow me to disclose my superior person-creating skills in my own time, thank you.

5) (I wonder if some Ashy Larry landed here somehow and was confused by my use of the word ‘female.’)

6) If the FBI are the “good guys,” and the mob, the bad ones, why are certain media outlets attacking Reverend Al for being an informant? It’s almost hilarious. Like, White people are really fed up. They’ve been waiting 30 years for this moment and they are gonna take it however they can get it.

7) I lost the number to the guy who picks up my laundry and now I have three bags of dirty clothes and my whole life is in shambles. I know there are other services in the area, but he is really nice and I am loyal. And 100% unwilling to wash my own clothes.

8) I told y’all I gave online dating a sorta-try, right? Update: I keep getting caught by people who know who I am. This ‘known-unknown’ thing is the pits. Can I at least have some money for being Y-list internet infamous? It’s not fair. I have a Wiki page. Internet will not let me find love, not ever.

9) Related: creating an online dating profile that prompts you to explain what you are looking for in a mate/bae forces you to be honest with yourself in a way that I might not be willing to do. I’m not really looking for a specific thing (meaning: I’d be cool with a ‘special friend’ or a soul mate, I’m not focused on one or the other), but I do feel weird articulating any of that. I just want #him to be cute, Lord. I have endureth a lot, just send me someone nice to look at with broad shoulders.

10)  Summer coming, this will be a moot point soon. Hallelu.

11) Even though I’m officially at the age where the men in my peer group are willfully setting themselves up for terminal Old Man In The Club disease, as they search for Beyunicorns and “focus on their careers.”

12) I had the above conversation with two guys last week and I bet the one I’m not referring to is the one who thinks I’m talking about him. Not you. NOT YOU.

13) Twenty-four year olds love me, though. Hashtag problems, hashtag bad ideas. Hashtage they so cute doe. 

14) Can you imagine just for a second that Thing That Happened with/to me a few weeks ago had happened to a White woman, a Black man? Just imagine that.

15) I’m good though, don’t bring it up.

15 Thoughts on Nicki’s “Chiraq”

I started this blog with the goal of posting something a few times a week for each of the 30 weeks before my 30th birthday. Of course, I failed. But I’ve enjoyed writing here when I’ve found the time to do so and the halfway mark sounds like a good time to re-commit. Or re-fail. I was going to do a list of 15 things that were on my mind today (spoiler: boys, faux outrage and the silence of allies were all up on it), but then a friend sent me Nicki’s new song. I think I’ll do all lists of 15 this week, 14 next week, and so forth, until I inevitably fall off again. I have something really cool for week zero though, I promise to follow through on that.

Either way, here are 15 thoughts on “Chiraq,” Nicki Minaj’s latest song; this post reflects the views of me (in case the chairman of the Cash Money National Committee feels like firing off an open letter.)

1) I’m so sick and disgusted and tired and tight over these “Chiraq” references from people who aren’t from Chicago—-and people over the age of 25 who are. It’s not cool, it’s not bad ass and it’s not accurate. What exactly is the draw of the Chicago as third-world country narrative for us? “I’m tough like Chicago, because n*ggas be dying in Chicago?” That’s sad.

2) Nicki’s rapping harder than ever these days. She’s also looking better than ever, posting pictures of herself with natural makeup and dark hair. She can rap good and is gorgeous and has subjected us to “Starships” and clown makeup for the last 5 years. How it happen? Why it happen?

3) So many quotables that I can only quote among my Real Friends or at a party, three Hennys in. I wish Nicki had said, “I don’t tell MFs, I show MFs” instead of “n*ggas,” I really would like that to become my life mantra. There’s another one of those on the track, but I’m far too classy to say.

4) The blatant disrespect for Malcolm’s daughter and the original use of the “Looking Ass N*gga” artwork is just a reminder about how unintelligent some of these super talented, business savvy artists can be. It wasn’t provocative, it wasn’t subversive or thought-provoking. It was stupid. Like, “I be killing n*ggas, get it?” stupid. Basic. That she felt the need to reference it here instead of just backing away from the original fail makes that rather clear.

5) I don’t think I will never know exactly how to feel about Nicki. She is extremely talented and extremely problematic. I hope she leaves that Pecola Breedhate ish behind. She was so interesting around the time “Monster” dropped, when she outrappped half the rappers of note at that moment in history. But then we got this strange ‘gangsta b*tch in Sketchers and glitter’ aesthetic, when I thought we were going to get something else…what, exactly, I’m not sure. A bad ass, someone sex positive and raunchy who would laugh at “Super Bass.”

6) You gotta be 18 to find “Lil’ Herb” acceptable as a rap name. We are officially out of rap names. We also are without memory. I see “Lil Herb,” I think “Lil’ Lame,” but this is a generation of rappers that grew up on snap music and Soulja Boy. So, I reckon they wouldn’t even know what “herb” meant.

7) I’m old.

8) I’m younger than Nicki, though. Which is why some of the things I want her to know and want her to care about (like encouraging masses of White teen fans and Black girls to make quips about “nappy headed hoes,” or USING AN ICONIC IMAGE OF MALCOLM X TO TALK ABOUT SCRUBS) drive me crazy. Barbs are young, she’s over 30.

9) Beat is sick. If the entire album sounds like this, no “Starships,” no “Super Bass,” we might have the guilty pleasure record for the ‘99 and the 2000.

10) Black nihilism is so sexxxxxy. Imagine the Lucian Grainges, Lyor Cohens and Jimmy Iovines of the world getting rich off of White kids celebrating White death and pain. You can’t. Meanwhile, Jay put Yacub out on front street recently and I’m biting my nails and hoping folks just look the other way.

11) I wonder how the tweeny-bopper, high-top sneakers and tutus crowd reacts to this Nicki.

12) Has there ever been an artist in the game with such jarring code switching practices?

13) Toure has a short story in The Portable Promised Land that is soooo about Nicki Minaj. The book came out in 2002 (but I first remember reading that piece in The Source, perhaps a year earlier?) and I can’t see Nicki without thinking about it. 

14) One of the criticisms of Toure’s book (and the “Black Widow” piece that gives me Minaj-realness) is that some of the essays “rely on catalogs of pop culture references [and] words and phrases in the black lexicon.” I suppose America wasn’t “tan” in 2002.

15) Dammit. Tan America is officially going to know about “Chiraq” now. Chiraq t-shirts coming to a Forever 21 near you. Some kid from Winnetka or Des Plaines is going to tell people they are from Chiraq over Strawberitas at a frat house. Everything is terrible.

Everything You Need to Know About Online Dating: An Expert’s Take

I set up a few online dating profiles, but I don’t actively use them to meet people. Here is my expert take on five of the most popular sites. You’re welcome, and feel free to PayPal me for my services.

1) Match.com: I have two Match profiles out in the world, but I can’t login to delete them because I don’t remember the info. One is from maybe 5 years ago and the other is about 2 years old. Match is horrible. All the men who contacted me either lived in the Bronx, White Plains or New Jersey. Also, they were largely White dudes in their 40s. Every single thing I named was outside of the ‘What I’m looking for’ in my profile. Wild disrespectful, b. When I searched, I didn’t see anyone I liked. Therefore, this is a bad website.

2) Chemistry: A few years ago, I filled out that long ass survey for them to tell me that there is ONE perfect person for me and he doesn’t have a picture. This proves that Chemistry doesn’t know me at all. I’m considering legal action or Change.org petition to have it shut down.

3) Coffee Meets Bagel: What a stupid, stupid name for a stupid, stupid app.  I don’t get how it works, but basically, you plug in your info and then they send you one match a day. Most of the dudes I matched with were over 6’ tall and Ivy League grads. Sadly, I had no interest in meeting any of them. So, Apple should shut down the app and use that space for something useful, like Black Emojis or a New Edition karaoke app. I mean, really.

4) Tinder: Man, I thought this was going to be the one. Skip all the nonsense and let’s get to the part that matters: WHAT DO YOU LOOK LIKE? DO YOU LIKE HOW I LOOK? I feel like everything else can be dealt with in time, but if we are not fond of each other’s appearances, there is no point. None. I have a really good record of never having dated a man I didn’t find to be cute from the get go, and I don’t feel like I need to ruin it.

This gets two paragraphs, because it’s the only one of the bunch I really put forth effort with. Tinder is fun because of the swiping. The swiping is addictive. And when you find that someone you voted ‘yes’ on voted ‘yes’ on you, it feels like you won points in a game. The highlight for me has been that pretty much every dude I ‘liked’ also matched with me. But…dassit. Most times, neither of us actually initiate contact. I’ve had a number of awkward chats on there, some revealing that the cutie is not as good at reading and writing words as he is at taking selfies. One guy invited me to join him in bed right that second, which is totes not what I was there for. Another sorta cursed me out for not replying to his message (I accidentally swiped ‘like’ for him and was trying to avoid saying as much.) There is one nice fella I chat with occasionally, but he moved away from the area.

Three paragraphs. I made arrangements to meet someone who seemed particularly engaging and ca-yute. We should have discussed height. I’m 5’9 and a hundred and (something-not-small, but not ‘just barely under 200’ either) pounds. I’m not a little girl. I’m not physically compatible with little guys. Would I prefer that someone was 6’4, 220? Of course. Do I expect that? Nah. But…I’ll just say that a lil’ dumplin can very easily look like a big strong fella if you shoot him at the wrong angle. Lesson learned. I will never use Tinder again. I can’t delete it off my phone though and sometimes I swipe when bored. Someone, please help me.

5) OKCupid: At the urging of a formerly-respected male friend, I signed up for OKStupid and I answered more questions than the SAT, only to get a mailbox full of generic messages from dudes who clearly send the same thing to every woman they contact. One White guy kinda broke on me for indicating that I was interested in meeting Black guys in my profile. His profile picture is of an African man. Another chap, aged 25, called me “adorable.” When does someone 4 years your senior become adorable? I am invoicing OKC for $500 for the hours I spent answering those questions. Also, again with the Queens and White Plains and New Jersey shit. I live in BROOKLYN. WHY IS THERE EVEN AN INTERNET AT ALL?

Conclusion: Online dating is a terrible idea and you can for real meet people you don’t like on the train for free and not even have to have your picture on a website. I would recommend that you do that…unless you are over a brother who is over 6’0, mad cute, college trained and can read good and live in Brooklyn—-in which case, I suggest that you find me on Tinder.

A thing happened. It became a big, draining thing. Have you ever been attacked by thousands of trolls because someone accused you (falsely) of attacking them? Has a Black person ever unleashed hundreds of racists on you? Asking for a me.

Anyway, I responded. Hopefully, this space can become irreverent and fun again next week. 30 comin’…

"People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening…" One of my all-time favorite songs.

Don’t Overthink KimYe, It’s Easy

My first print piece was commissioned by Essence in 2010. It was a response to the choice of then-Kim bae Reggie Bush as a cover model—via a stock photo—- for the mag’s February “Black love” issue. I talked about how even sisters who aren’t anti-interracial dating can be made to feel some type of way by the overindexing of brothers who choose others, in the spotlight and out. I regrettably bio-ed myself as “freelance writer/social media personality,” haha. (Worked out okay for me in the end, but no one should ever call themselves that again.) Demetria Lucas was my editor, she was very kind and easy to work with. There were a few small changes that I would be able to push back on now that I stayed quiet on then. I got my first good-ass writing check. I hate this article now, it’s kinda boring and I set aside much of my voice because I didn’t think older Black ladies would dig my snark. But I think it gets to the point.

"When (Black women) comment on Black men’s choices, we are labled haters. Really? The ESPY Awards resemble an interracial couples’ convention and I can’t comment on the lack (Jamilah 2014 would have phrased this part differently-J’14) of Black wives and girlfriends in the room?…when Black women are more often than note the ones who washed the jerseys, polished the trophies and sacrificed to get these men to where they are (I meant their mothers-J’14)…Why aren’t we good enough to be there when they have it all? Why isn’t our love a prize?

Unfortunately, many brothers have different standards for non-Black women than they do us. Kobe Bryant…(married) a video model, a job that’s largely frowned upon when a Black woman occupies it. Black women are constantly told that being a “baby mama” will make it hard for us to find a husband (FML-J’14) (J/K, I’m still the ish-J’14) Yet, Heidi Klum was able to snag Seal while she was pregnant with another man’s baby. And do you honestly think a sister with a sex tape made public could bag an eligible millionaire like Reggie Bush? Yet Kim Kardashian, a socialite and reality TV star…had no problem doing just that.

For a great number of the sisters who are/were annoyed by Kim, ReggiKim (retroactive nickname game wavy) and KimYe, I believe that last part sums it all up.

To be the stereotypical pretty, yet dense girl on the arm of a football player is one thing, but Kim ended up with this extremely talented musician who seems to think of himself as a ‘race man’ revolutionary sort. A man who many of the couple’s detractors came to know via his outburst on that Hurricane Katrina telethon. Someone who’s dad was a Black Panther, his mother, a professor. Kim’s TV persona is shallow, whiny and boring and because said persona is on a reality show about her life, it’s easy to believe that is the real her. She seems nice, but she also seems to be the human equivalent of a walking Instagram photo. Hashtag lots of filters, hashtag thirst trap.

And we’re also watching Kanye play out this strange seeming fascination with Whiteness. Running with these high post, Vogue-ass White folks, posing with lithe, lifeless-looking White women, championing European aesthetics loudly and awkwardly (A kilt, my dude? That’s how we combat hyper-hetromasculinity?), screaming about the Medici family, looking perpetually unhappy and ending up with the seemingly vapid and rather White girl with the big ole butt that is seemingly fake. It’s a lot.

Sotto Voce: Someone has to do the definitive look at race men/”race men” who end up with non-Black women. There are a lot of them. This does not mean that they are frauds or unable to love Black people (or even Black women), but there’s enough of them to make you say, “Huh.” (Some of them are trash, though.) I’m not writing it. I don’t want to think about it too much.

SV, Con’t :This is one of the many things I hate about this alleged ‘tan’ America that Steve Stoute and others praise so. Is the goal to get make a left on Nostrand Ave, a right on 79th and get the fuck away from Black people? To join the Rat Pack, like Puff in them Ciroc commercials? To be niggas in Paris with Gweneth, as opposed to with some niggas?TOM FORD!

Bush-years Kanye was a lot more likeable than Obama-years Kanye. And I’m not saying that just because he went from doing songs with the Dialated Peoples and dating Deltas, to en Vogue and “I woulda married Kate and Ashley.” (That was gross though, those girls look like they’ve been dead since 2006. What happened to you, Yeezus? IS IT THE OTHER WHITE GIRL IN THE ROOM THAT NO ONE IS TALKING ABOUT?) And it’s bigger than him giving himself the props he feels he doesn’t get from others. 

Lest we not forget that publicly suggested that Kim Kardashian was more worthy of the cover of Vogue than First Lady Michelle Obama, a Black woman from the South Side of Chicago. This is not the sort of statement that inspires folks to just look past politics or personal taste and say, “But what a lovely couple!” 

Using Chief Keef on Yeezus bothers me a lot more than KimYe, for the record. One is corny, the other is nihilistic. Mr. West. is a ball of confusion and contradictions, and it used to make for really great music. Now, it makes for a headache. Perhaps I’m getting old. I’m significantly younger than Kanye, though.

"When he get on, he leave your ass for a White girl" seemed like a snarky bit of cultural commentary at the time, but perhaps ‘Ye always saw this coming. Or not. Maybe it just happened and she’s a kind girl who he just happened to fall in love with and cheat on his last girl with (or switch that order.) Whatever. Something happened and now here they are and they have a really cute baby and hopefully, they are all happy. Race aside, they don’t make for a terribly likeable couple and homeboy campaigned for that cover and that’s corny AF. Fin.

The Sex and the Sexy (Let me lay it on the line.)

I have somewhere to be in 45 minutes, this is going to be trash. But I’m literally going to die if I don’t write something like, yesterday.

(I snuck back in and edited this.)

So, The Thirty is coming. Knocking on my door, tapping on my window, kicking that bitch in when I don’t answer. (Duh, that is what this blog has always been about.) Here are some of the things I have been told happen when you turn 30, or should happen by 30:

-“Give up miniskirts”- My mother, with one of the many lies, lies, lies she has told me over the years with the absolute best of intentions.

-“You’re supposed to have a career and family”-The World. I have this, but, well, you know…still filling in some key gaps.

-“Your sex drive goes crazy”-Every woman I know over 30.

Now, that’s something I can work with.

I’m not the type of person who would share the intimate details of my actual sex life (Do I have one? Maybe, maybe not, IDK. If I’m sleeping you, that is the only way you would know that.) But there are some general things that I feel comfy discussing. Let’s have girl talk, but it’s not just us girls, it’s the internet. Pop popcorn and come braid my hair.

Let’s start with the fact that I have recently become completely, COMPLETELY obsessed with lingerie. Like, there are 3 lingerie sites that I check almost daily and why are there so many dirty pretty things? I need them all. ALL OF THEM.  In a “me, right now” and size “when I drop these last 10 [okay,17] pounds.” So, I buy it, but I’m afraid to buy as much as I want because I fear I will jinx myself and never have sex again.

Have I explained the Rule of Jamilah before? If I wear rain boots, it’s sunny. Sandals, and a monsoon hits. I pack good dresses for a trip, and have nowhere to go. Travel light, there’s parties every night. And if I have too much good lingerie, I will find myself without anyone good to see it. These truths is mad self-evident, B.

Also, I think about sex a lot more than I ever have at any point in my life. It is so present and important. I think the rapid descent into an old thirty bastard is real. It’s not a myth, I don’t know myself anymore.

I see the sexy in women of all shades, sizes, ages and backgrounds, as I always have. My eye is more discerning when it comes to men, however. It’s broad enough to keep me happy and narrow enough to keep me safe. However, my sense of what makes me sexy is ever evolving. And this particular moment in Black (Tan? lol) pop culture is bringing a certain sexual…thing to the forefront of my consciousness that is attacking my sensual self-esteem (Sensual sense of self? Sense of self as sexy?)

Everyone is wearing 7 pounds of hair, 3 pounds of makeup, 2 Spanx and a corset. Butt shots and boob lifts and target lipo, oh my. When I first moved to NY, the flyness of the women required an immediate stepping up of my game. Which I did and my love/like life/Personal Sense of Sexy improved like crazy. I’m dating and meeting guys pretty regularly here, but compared to this new phenomenon of women looking like they stepped straight of the set of a music video or ‘Wives’ franchise, I feel mad regular.

I do not need or want affirmation. I am just saying things I feel. I don’t want anyone to tell me that I’m good enough. What an awful disclaimer, what an awful thing to discourage the kindness of others. But musings about insecurities usually lead to such and I am 100% sure that none of those niceties will move the needle, not for me, and I just want to own some of my fuckedupness and share it with others, who may be able to relate. Good tidings ain’t give me Tahiry’s body, so I cannot do anything with them.

I might get some work done, no bullshit. .

I hope Dirty 30 is just that and as sexually exciting and fulfilling as I have been promised. I don’t do celibacy. (I read something today where a woman said she had colleagues that had gone 5, 10 years without sex and she tied it to their career pursuits. I can’t even deal with that as a concept. I think I could go 5-10 years without a lunch break much easier.) I’ve had a period defined by a lack of interest in sex, but the idea of just choosing not to or being too busy, no. That can’t happen.

I think part of what makes 30 a sexy time for women, (aside from the fact that we know how to do some stuff now, you know?) is the increased self acceptance and sense of personal fulfillment. I don’t know if I want to ever accept myself so much that I don’t agonize over my appearance. That’s probably not very feminist of me, but my everything is flawed, so rejoice and be glad or mad, or whatever. But insecurity aside, I know the “I’m a grown woman, I do whatever I want” feeling I have at 29 certainly helps keep my pursuit of personal peak sexiness moving forward. I’m hoping 30 is even more lascivious, and with more lace.