Just Drive

I feel like I've reached an impasse. A never-ending maze with an elusive exit. So many decisions, so many things to nibble away at, but I'm completely deadlocked. People, places, and things never cease to perplex the hell out of me. And at times, it's overwhelming. I've had moments where I've attempted to check out, but alas, to no avail, because worries, my thoughts continue to plague me. I manage to be aloof in certain aspects of my life i.e., dating; wishy washy suitors, and an endless supply of assholes. In other aspects? Not so much; opportunities, my livelihood, my future. 

Ofttimes I think I have a dubious guardian, who loves toying with me and seeing me grapple with the worst luck! Or perhaps I'm an unwitting contestant in some twisted reality television program, where the masses are watching me wrestle and fight my way to the top. I don't know, but I continue to shadowbox. To bob, weave, sidestep... dance... twirl my way to what I feel is rightfully mine! I'm at a loss right now. I don't know how to plot my next move but I do know that I'm ready for my turn. I'm thinking. I'm pondering. I'm pissed. Intense game of mind play at work. Please do not disturb!

The fight continues. This is round 20.

Me Talk Pretty One Day

Snow fall, plus minimal sleep, coupled with grumpiness, divided by exasperation, multiplied by, "Wait, I'm flummoxed," plus "Bastard(s) please!"- minus zero booze equals my mind is on a marathon run, and it has a case of the disappointeds. 

"Sex only goes so far — then you want to be able to talk to the person..." -creator of that sex robot, talking, woman thing.

• Smile! 
• Slim down! 
• Just nod! 
• Go easy on the intellect, will you!
• You're way too sophisticated for me (read: your brain is too high maintanence).
• Only weigh-in when deferred to. 
• You look angry. 
• Bitch! 
• I've created you in *my* image. Live up to it dammit!
• Be infallible, pwetty pweeeease!
  
• You're aging. Stop it at once before I upgrade!
• I'll stalk you until you *do* give in! 
  
• You're comfy with your sexuality? Then you're a slut, WHORE!
• You can turn on the smart now. I'm ready for you. Bring it!
  
• You should like this list of preferences, cuz it makes me happy and secure ... 

So many demands. The list seems endless. It becomes even more asinine and disturbing it its growth. Perhaps now that the latest and greatest in technological minds has created a sex robot (fresh off the AVN Porn Expo's showroom floor)  that focuses on "appealing to the mind." Real, living, and breathing women born of flesh and blood can exhale a little bit and get somewhat of a reprieve from living up to so many standards. Even if it seems to aim to make us obsolete (or to appeal to the socially inept male mind, who can't mesh well or deal with real female interaction anyway). Alas, an inanimate object, masquerading as a woman, reminiscent of a corpse can listen intently, as its human lover reads it passages out of David Levy's 'Love And Sex With Robots.' Ladies, hold tight to your vibrators. It doesn't judge or criticize, and will never demand that you "smile!" while walking past it.

Slippery When Wet

I recently damned the complexities of dating and all its bullshit to hell. Cynicism aside; Upon further discussions with friends newly found and old, recent meet & greets, as well as random acts of thinking on a lazy Sunday afternoon, I've concluded that finding a decent person to spend quality time with on occasion, is akin to holding onto a slippery bar of soap, while trying to keep your shit together in prison. I've never been to prison and have no aspirations of landing my big break in that particular environment, but I would imagine that lathering up in a communal shower while deep in thought over how the hell you found yourself there... and then dropping the soap, only to bend over without thought or caution and get reamed within an inch of your life in an opportunistic sneak attack, is a traumatizing experience to say the least. You have to hold onto that bar of soap for dear life, and be methodical with every move you make as you lather your skin in a circular motion, shifty eyed and leery.

Dating requires patience, maintaining tough but supple skin, methodical movements, intellect, caution, and engaging in a carefully choreographed Adagio dance or angry Tango Ultimo with the opposite sex. As frustrating as trying to foster or nourish a certain level of intimacy or rapport with someone is; Being aloof, intuitive, and resolute is a must. Because if you let yourself slip up and get mired in the foolishness--- bam! You're doubled over, screwed out of nowhere. It's le marcher fou des sexes for sure. I'm constantly dancing over potholes and bird shit. I've even tripped over a crack or two... But all praises due to Ọṣun,  I always manage to regain my footing before going down, face-first like a cheap, ten dollar whore. Not sure what my score card would read like though. I shudder at the thought. And I bathe with shower gel most days, rather than soap sooo--- yeah.

Hair Today, Hair Tomorrow

People who know me personally-- those that've read posts here, on Coffee Rhetoric, realize or have come to realize how passionate I am about Black women's issues. Specifically those having to do with our unique brand of beauty, our image, and our hair. A little more than 10 years ago, I opted to stop using chemicals to straighten my hair. I wear my hair "natural" if you will. That's a personal choice I maintain til this day. I love my hair in its natural state and tend to not care what anyone else thinks of my hair's type and texture. Natural hair does NOT a militant make... nor is it me trying to make a political statement. It's me, being at peace with myself. I did not come out of my mother's womb with a chemical relaxer. And I don't answer to or flinch over the negative connotations of the phrase "nappy."

While I don't subscribe to altering the state of my hair via relaxers, weaves, lace-front wigs or what have you... I don't begrudge any other Black woman the right to do what she sees fit to do with her hair regimen. To each her own. I am only concerned with my own hair routine. And while I would LOVE to shrug and say, "It's just hair," and move on... unfortunately for Black women... it isn't that simple. Women of color will always be embattled over the texture of our hair and skin shade. Unfortunate. Multi-layered. Complicated. And rooted in a painful history. And lately, I'm discovering it's not as cut and dry as relaxed hair vs natural hair vs hair that's beweaved vs that which is bewigged.

For the past 2-3 years or so, there has been a huge influx of natural hair care products, YouTube tutorial videos, online forums, and websites celebrating the beauty and versatility of afro-textured hair. But even within the natural hair community, there is a lot of controversy.

There are "naturals" who are obsessed with texture and so will swear by a hair system/chart to determine their "hair type" -- or to aspire to a 3C hair type, most commonly associated with mixed race people. Some naturals are more concerned with length and so will find ways to stretch the hair to its maximum- (preferably "bra strap long" some women on various forums will brag).

I've come across blogs where there is petty squabbling in the comments section over which natural hair care method is the best and only way to treat afro-textured hair or whether or not the blog's host features enough women with kinkier textured hair, versus women with "mixed race" hair.

It's maddening. While I do enjoy discovering new ideas, products, and recipes for my own hair, I've made a conscious decision not to concern myself with dictatorial methods of natural hair care. I run my hands through my hair everyday, and so know what does and does not work.

I find it most unfortunate that even while Black women reach their epiphany and "free" themselves from eurocentric hair and beauty expectations, many still can't make peace with themselves, even within the confines of the natural hair community. When will this "Good Hair/Bad Hair/Not Good Enough Natural Hair conflict end? These natural hair mandates are exhausting. I've read debates over whether or not First Lady Michelle Obama "presses" or relaxes her hair straight.  Or whether EVERY natural will experience major consequences if some of us choose to blow out our afro-textured hair using minimal amounts of heat. If we'll experience major growth if we take this vitamin, or that vitamin. If our White co-workers and dating prospects will like or accept us if we style our natural hair a specific way. All hell broke loose on the Black (and some predominantly White) celebrity blogs, when Solange Knowles stopped wearing wigs and cut her hair closely to her scalp. Listen, who cares? I would LOVE to see and for us to seize the day when hair will just be considered that. Hair. And when we can truly and really, for real, be happy in our own skin and with the depth of our hair's texture, without this seemingly constant need for validation.