The Super has noticed an interesting phenomenon. I noticed the trend as I strolled through the malls, visited the theater and while I walked through the city minding my own beeswax. For the record, I believe that even if you have a face like reggae artist Shabba Ranks or Ugly Betty when she’s feeling stank, that everyone has their own special kind of beauty. That said, there are girls walking the streets with bellies the size of army Special Forces tanks and with faces requiring bulletproof vests. Some of these unfortunate ones stroll the sidewalks with mugs only slightly better looking the Color Purple’s Ms. Ceily. But Don’t Cry for them Argentina, um, I mean New York City, because they have what many of my slim and slammin’ friends do not have – boyfriends. These ladies despite not being pretty in the face or slim in the waist, are sauntering down the avenue hand-in-hand with boyfriends and boo’s. My Tyra Banks look-a-likes and Naomi Campbell wannabes are at home on Saturday nights eating Ben and Jerry’s. What’s up with that? Can someone explain? Why are the pretty girls lonely while the less-than-lovely of the world have every Friday and Saturday nights jammed with dates? Are the lovely among us more picky and particular? Are they harder to please? Is there a reason all the pretty girls are lonely? Besides discreetly advertising in popular men’s magazines like professional pretties called prostitutes, what does a pretty girl have to do to get a date? What do you think?
Growing Old Money October 18, 2010
Mom’s getting old–not Joan Rivers teetering on the edge of the crypt old, but more subtle and insidious. The changes are harder to spot when Botox isn’t involved but the evidence is glaring. She sleeps more and wakes later. Now she strolls instead of barrels ahead and stairs are harder to climb. She hugs me longer and with more intensity. Is she counting the touches, the kisses and storing up the affection she receives to take with her? Where is she going? It’s a hard process to watch. It’s not like I didn’t know that people age. I shouldn’t have expected mom to stay the same age she was when she wore the sequins bustier and blue leather skirt with the door-knocker earrings. I shouldn’t have expected her to be as lively as when jerry curls, cameo’s and Eddie Murphy tight pants were still in vogue, but the last time I saw her it really hit me that she wasn’t going to be around forever. I wasn’t the little girl she used to bounce on her knee and she wasn’t the fiery-tempered, saucy-tongued, take-no-nonsense mother she once was. She was slowing down. Like clocks, people slowly wind down until they wind to a stop. It’s the inevitable cycle of life for which no one is immune. Somehow the Super Sistah thought mom would be spared the kryptonite which was old age. Who was I fooling? So beyond the pain that comes with a good dose of reality, the Super started making plans and vows. Every instance in life can be used for motivation. Mom’s approaching retirement is inspiring me. This is what I’m envisioning. Dream with me.
Here comes the Super’s Mommy pushing the bad ass whip with the touch panel navigation system she doesn’t know how to use. The retirement home is the condo on the beach with the spectacular view of palm trees. Rest happens in the King size bed with the 1000 sheet thread count. She’s a combination of P.Diddy’s mom minus the horrible blond weave and Dynasty’s Joan Collins–rocking the fur coat in 100 degree weather. She’s ballin’ and moving on up straight George and Weezy style.
I’m making a music video in my mind because it’s all a dream that I have no idea how I ‘m going to make into reality. What I know is that there can be no alternative. I have to rewrite the future using my own script. I have to pay back my mother for all she’s done for me. Isn’t a child’s duty to make good on emotional debts? Aren’t we all born to pay what we owe? Speak to me.