In my twenties, I wore that title like a badge of honor. I was 23 and had already reached lower-middle management at my company. I had my own place and paid my own bills. I made enough to send money back to my family.
I was doing the damn thing and was proud of it.
And I wanted every man who was interested in me to recognize that. To know that I didn’t need him. My time was merely a courtesy I was extending.
In my last post, I wrote “I place black men on a pedestal. If I had poetic abilities, I’d write an epic celebrating their power, their sexiness, their resilience and determination. No one could ever hope to duplicate the swagger of a black man in a well-tailored suit and freshly-groomed beard. There is no other set of arms that brings the security and safety that a woman feels when she crawls into the arms of a black man. There is no challenge that a black man will face where a black woman will not stand beside or in front of him.”
I hate the term “game.” Loathe it. It ignites a visceral reaction in me anytime I hear it. It was uttered in my presence recently, and my attraction had an instant diminishing.
Children play games, and I am of the age when I give rapt attention to Prudential retirement commercials. I am of the age when I have more things to accomplish than I have waking hours in the day. I am of the age when there are a dozen substantial thoughts bouncing around my mind each minute, and there is no time for inconsequential things. And there is definitely no allotment in my schedule for games.