sagaciously is...

...On dating while nappy, and my non-existent lovelife...

Barnes and Noble nights::
Y'all know about the grad school grind, so I won't reiterate. Let's just say the social highlight of my week is now my Friday Night trip to B&N and Starbucks. So, to be "wild", and change up my routine, I try to rotate the B&N/Starbucks, and find new spots. So, I'm in the B&N closest to home (a new thing for me), and I'm studying - between checking out the cuties.

Let me digress momentarily, and redefine cutie. Cutie:: corporate casually dressed brother (think suitjacket and jeans), also adorned with watch, laptop case (briefcase/messenger bag/one-shoulder backpack), car keys, and actual books, who's also at B&N to do double-duty - handle biz, and check out chicks.

So, spot this one cutie, who's old enuff to be a contender, and sporting highlighted books and legal pad, which means he's either a)also in school or b)an entrepreneur. He had on a pair of black, heavy-framed square nerd classes, that he was managing to put an oh-so-sexy spin on that wouldn't stop....dayum, digressed again. Ok, so I'm checking out said cutie, and said cutie is...ignoring me. Completely. Like I'm 10-day old Spam that's been left out on the countertop, leaving a grease trail leading back to the can it plopped out of. Meanwhile, he's checking out every OTHER sister that's walking by, while occasionally highlighting the same two pages in this book, over and over for about two hours. Dayum. I check my breath, clothes - they're tight, so what gives?

life in the fat lane::
Weeelll...let's be really honest. REALLY honest. Saga (that would be me) weighs in at well over 200lbs. Hell, it's so far over 200 lbs, that it's well more than any average brother. Even more than some non-average brothers, ok? So, I'm VERY conscious of the fact that men are visual creatures, and the visual I'm presenting may not be every Fortune 500 working man's cup of tea. I don't date short/small men, so I understand - we all have our desires, and there's nothing whatsoever wrong with that.

BUT - this is Georgia we're talking about here, one of the few states that allows the sale of unrefrigerated fatback at gas stations. (BOOOOO - that was the dayum yankee in me str8 hatin. sowwy). My point is, that Big Girls Get Love in da South, too. Big Girls with Yellow/Red/Blue hair, with extra-short micro-miniskirts, with jail tattos and facial piercings. Even Big Girls with BO, facial piercings, jail tattoos...ok, you get the idea. I'm just saying, it can't be just that I'm fat...

theAngryBlackWoman syndrome::
I don't even have to define it - because Denene, Angela and Mitzi did a good job of that at AngryBlackWoman.com. (fyi - you can read an excerpt of their book here). So, theBabyDaddy, Sadat and SG have concurred that not only do I have it, but I've got it so bad that I actually need an antidote to keep from scaring off small children, and some animals. As far as this subject is concerned, I think in the last 90-180 days, I've given all three of them the opportunity to kiss my a$$.

However, theChaos, Mia and theVixen are chiming in that my smile is so publicly rare, they thought I had front teeth missing, or had gotten a titanium grill and was self-conscious about it. Since technically I don't want any chicks (or children) kissing my a$$, I took their words to heart, and flashed the pearlies at said cutie. He ran (ok, he actually just packed up his stuff and walked, but the retreat was pretty hasty).

I then tried to flirt with the older-gentleman at table two, but then his compatriot (not sure if it was his date, or daughter) joined him - a 25 yr old big beautiful girl, with colored contacts, and long hair...long, flowing weaved, hair....

nappy is as...:
<singing>"Her name is Lindy...." I love being nappy-headed. Love it. LOVE it. Love it to the point where I even love the moments of Don King-ness - when my shyt is reaching for the sky, in no particular order. Y'all know them first coupla weeks after New Year's when I was MIA? I was in Lowe's e'errrryday, naps sticking out e'errrrywhere, buying all kinds of crap I needed for the crib. Mind you, I was off from work, and could easily have been doing my hair in braids, twists, cornrows, etc. I walked around, sans makeup, sweats, hair wild, reaching to the sky (see pic at right). No I didn't "fix it" - because I love my wild, natural hair.

As for the brothers....well, they won't come out and admit it, but I don't think the brothers love the wild natural hair. Some brothers flat out LOVE long hair. Some brothers flat out LOVE straight hair. Some brothers flat out LOVE coiffed, professionally "done" hair. Again, just like living in the fat lane, I understand and respect that. I'd like to think that I look as beautiful as that pic (at the very top - the Carmen Jones pic) all the time, but the reality is that there are Don King days (like the flower pic), and while I think those days are beautiful too, some brothers ain't feeling that.

Even my friends have noted this, which is where the (what I like to call) "Lindy" song evolved. theVixen, having informed me that I needed to broaden my dating horizons and entertain dating outside my race, suggested that my future unnamed Indian husband is destined to sing me the following <...in bad Hindu accent...> "Lindy is my baby, my baby is Lindy, I love to run my fingers thru her beootiful nappy hai-ir..." In other words, I'm more likely to get anyone but a brother to attempt to run their fingers through the naps. The brothas know...they may pull back a nub.

aside:: why does it burn my a$$ so much that so many "natural" (loc'd, pro-black, "conscious", etc) men, prefer women who are ultra-coiffed, and therefore "un-natural"? I dunno - but it does.

boo-boo really smells like lil-lies::
So, while my self-image is fan-friggin-tastic - wait, let me digress again. My self-image is at an all-time, 40 year high. Let me 'splain. I've always been pretty, to others, and in my own mind. However, being female, I'd struggled with my weight, self-consciousness, and negative body image, for a long time. But I've always known that confidence can overcome a lot of obstacles, so most folks that met me would never know that. Fate being a great equalizer, and after coming thru lots of drama, I've learned that just as we define our own destiny, we also design other people's perceptions of us. And frankly, to anyone else's negative perception of me, I really have never given a lot of thought.

Jump to today, and now that I've got a coupla degrees under my belt, I'm a homeowner, with better than average credit (still working on good...lol), a decent job, and intelligence & humility beyond measure (lmao) - I think my boo-boo smells way better than roses, really more like dragon lillies, and only a discerning brother has the nose to note the variation.

BUT...

invisible woman::
...the brothas ain't checking for me, at all. Let me repeat that - the brothas ain't checkin for me. Not at the grocery store, gas station, school, work - not at the club, museum, gallery, movies. Like said cutie, I'm the big, nappy-headed sista standing in front of the sista he's really trying to get at. Is it because of _______ (fill in the blanks: fat, nappy, attitude, all of the above)? I don't know, but I want to know. I do - because I care. Lindy song, or no Lindy song - I may not need a brotha, but I want a brotha. Not just a man, but a black man. And I want that brotha to want me.

And, since my big nappy head is kinda swole from the job, the house, the MBA program, etc. - I ain't been making it any easier on the brothas to try and get at me. Even though 40 and I are just about best friends, and even though I'm excited about becoming friends with the big 4-0, and even though at 40 I'm fly, and sometimes get mistaken for 2X or early-3X, I want a grown a$$ man to step to me, not vice-versa. I went through that momentary "my eggs are about to die" frenzy a few years back, got past it, and ain't trying to revisit it. I'm not chasing, I want to be pursued, still want the man to be the aggressor, yanno?

thePoint::
So, given all that, here's what I'm facing: the pinhead field. See, every metric point I mentioned narrows the field of available eligible men that I'm willing to date: They have to want a fat chick. They have to want a nappy-headed chick. They have to want someone whose life (and a$$) is full and well-rounded. They have to want a woman with a strong, independent spirit. They have to want a woman who is so confident, that she's cool with occasionally looking like Don King.

As I tick off the list of metrics, I visualize that field slowly, yet discernibly narrowing. Eliminate the homosexual, inter-racial preferring, sorry (go here for my definition of sorry), brothers, as well as the will-definitely-be-threatened-by-my-success brothas, and that field is literally the size of the head of a #10 straightpin.

So, to said cutie: I understand. And to that pinhead brotha: I'm still waiting & looking for you.