the Super Sistah Blog

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Love is Like a Fist February 14, 2011

Filed under: General,Love-Relationships,Women's Issues — thesupersistah @ 5:54 pm
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Some individuals are afraid of love. Like all things that require risk, love is stamped with a handle with care or danger sign. For many, instead of a warm inviting fire, love is like a stove turned up too high. The flame is a liability that left unchecked can burn the house down and leave destruction behind. For some folks, relationships require caution. Every date and mate is approached with an orange and yellow neon caution sign that blinks uncontrollably. Instead of a sexy red dress, the outfit of choice is a red warning siren overhead that flashes DON’T TOUCH.  When in relationships these individuals only give the love they think they can spare and hoard the rest.  They keep the excess emotion locked within themselves so they have an emergency supply in times of famine and duress.  People have hurt them in the past so they protect their love like the military and surround it with a battalion of war ready soldiers.  The plan is to protect the heart from risk. But as with all things, love is like a fist. Holding the hand clenched tight doesn’t let anything precious out but it also doesn’t let anything valuable in. No one can win.

So for the lost in love, the hurt and humiliated, and most importantly, for the weary, let me tell you this on Valentine’s Day.  Love won’t kill you. It can’t.  Love is a gift meant to uplift, strengthen and build. The heart is a strong organ meant to beat despite the greatest tests. It’s meant to endure and not shatter or break like glass at the slightest trial. If I get biblical the Good Book says, to everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under the sun. A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill and a time to heal.  A time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance…

If there is a time for everything then there is a time for love. So this year and years following, let your hair down. Love hard and without restraint. Dance into love and let the emotion overwhelm you. Laugh because it’s allowed and remember that no matter what went wrong in the past. Today is a new beginning.

I wish all my readers all the love their hearts and hands can hold. Let it overflow and consume. May you jump from the top of the mountain into the abyss feet first with your eyes wide open. Wade into the murky waters of love with all your clothes on and let the refreshing waters of fearlessness cleanse all your doubts. If you loved unwisely in the past it’s not the love that you gave that was wrong, it was the recipient. Dust yourself off, leave the past behind you and present the next person a brand new revitalized heart. Love is currency, spend wisely.

Have you ever been afraid of love?

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Beauty Backlash November 27, 2010

The Super is not a girly girl. I’m more butch than Barbie.   I’m the type of girl whose looks are deceiving. I look like I invest a lot of time in maintaining the pretty. But it’s a lie.  Like all women I like to keep myself up but I find my beauty regime time-consuming and tedious.  The problem is that I love the fellas and men like bees are attracted to honey. So I make myself up in the morning (not on the train though I find that annoying.) I wax, not because I think a little forest ever hurt anybody, but because a strip is more civilized.  I wear Victoria Secret undies but near laundry week the pair might be ripped and unraveling.  I keep my hair tight. Michelle O has nothing on me. But I skip the expensive stylist for the bargain basement blow out for $19.99. I like to look good—on a budget.  Watching me trot down the street though might deceive you.  I look casually expensive.  Less Gucci and more J.Crew but my clothes are out of season and off the rack.  For me clearance signs evoke ecstasy.  I look like beauty is important but I’m a fraud. The truth is that I will go weeks without a manicure until my hands look like broken and chipped claws.  I only know that a pedicure is in order because my toe nails cut through my sheets.  My manicurist mutters curse words in Chinese every time she sees me.  I get my eyebrows done regularly because even I know a unibrow isn’t sexy.  Having said all that,  I recently became a slave to the pretty.

I decided that my lashes weren’t long enough.  I wanted them long and sultry.  Big mistake.  I couldn’t see. My eyelids felt like they were being held down by bricks and I my eyes were so red I thought my cornea had dropped out.  After a full day of walking around with lashes like bat wings, I gave in.  There was no point in being pretty if I couldn’t see.   A total waste of money which has led to a beauty backslash.  In protest, this week I’m wearing my granny panties,  my hair in a bun and I’m letting my legs get hairy.  Even the most ardent beauty enthusiast needs a reprieve.

Have you suffered for beauty?

 

Pretty Lonely October 29, 2010

Filed under: Beauty/Health,Love-Relationships,Women's Issues — thesupersistah @ 9:24 pm
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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?

He's the beauty, she's the .....

 

Faded Beauty September 15, 2010

Filed under: Beauty/Health,Love-Relationships,Women's Issues — thesupersistah @ 12:03 am
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Today I woke up and I had more grey hair than I could count; at least ten strands more than just last year. To make it worse, the hair ruining by jet black coif was growing in grey and not the fashionable silver of rich older women. I grabbed the tweezers and started yanking. I was way too young to wake up with hair like a mop. It was depressing.  As I was feeling sorry for myself, I noticed that all the frowning was making a line down the center of my forehead. The same line that I discovered five years ago that came and went with my emotions but now looked like it was settling in for a good long stay.  I used my fingertips to manipulate the skin to ease the line from between my brows but to no avail.  I was getting old.    

I had a good run. For years I’d been mistaken for five, sometimes eight, years younger than I was, but old man age had caught up with me.  No amount of creams, products, lotions or elixirs could help me now. I’d moved from being Miss to Ma’am.  When had that happened?  What did I have to look forward to in old age besides little boys kicking away my walker or nylon socks dropping around spongy ankles? Was it me or was my waist heading East and West in opposite directions?  In mild panic and desperation, I recruited my sister to investigate the truth behind my deteriorating looks.  

“Look there,” I told her. “Do you see the wrinkles and puffy dark circles under my eyes?”  

She studied my face obediently without a hint of impatience. “Nope, don’t see anything.”  

 I let out a breath of frustration and disbelief.  

 “There, there!” I told her pointing. “You aren’t looking. There’s the grey hair and this is where I’m developing a bit of a jowl and a double chin.  You’re not blind.  You must see!”  

Being in her twenties she didn’t understand my distress and urgency. “Nah, you look the same to me.” She said shrugging.   

I decided she was useless. She was obviously trying to spare my feelings.  I should’ve appreciated her sensitivity but her deception just made me want to pull her hair.  Instead I began to keep a vigilant watch over my looks but just like Wall Street, they were going down.  It sent me into a decline until one day I remembered something important.   

I ran across the picture of my childhood friend who’d died in her twenties. I remembered all the wrinkles and greys that she would miss.  I remembered all the birthdays she would never get to attend. I remembered how her mother would grow old without her love and care.  I remembered these things and tears came to my eyes.  I was blessed to wake up every day and breathe the morning’s air.  I was blessed to have the love of my friends and family.  I was fortunate that any mistakes I’d made or any relationships I had to mend, I still had the time to make the repairs.    

If I had to give up the preserved perfection of youth for the opportunity to grow old, wrinkly and round surrounded by family, then I decided that if beauty was the only sacrifice, it was a fair trade.   

Here's to Birthday's!

 

 

The Art of Letting Go July 27, 2010

Filed under: Love-Relationships — thesupersistah @ 2:31 am
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Super Sistah has been accused of being a Vulcan, a robot and a person with her feelings under tight control.  My closest friends often marvel at my inability to feel pain and treat me with a mixture of admiration and scorn.  Supposedly nothing can touch me.  They’re all morons.  If I’m like Spock, then like him, underneath my seemingly calm exterior is a teeming caldron of bubbling and explosive emotions. I’m not dead inside. I feel plenty. What I’ve mastered; however, is the art of the blank stare— the poker face.  My mastery over the muscles in my face has been both the bright light and bane of my existence.  I get hurt often. People have said and done things to mortally wound me. Most of them are unaware of the damage they’ve inflicted.   Only when I’m alone do I drop the bloody bandage around my heart to reveal the hemorrhaging going on inside. My room runs red but I clean it privately.  I don’t recommend this as a coping strategy. It’s not always healthy. But a friend of mine who’s the exact opposite recently broke up with a boyfriend who she begged on bended knee to give her a second chance.  

She’s the crying type; the expressive one.   She’s probably the more emotionally healthy one between us.  Recently she asked me for some of my coping strategies for when I cut off, let go or dead the men in my past who have hurt me.  She wanted me to write it down step-by-step.  Here you go, Symone. 

The Art of Letting Go – Aka – Deading Douche Bags 

Step 1 – Acknowledge that you got played, hurt and humiliated  

Pretending that your feelings weren’t hurt is a pathetic practice of self-denial. You can’t lie to yourself. Just like the movie Inception, your sub-conscious truth is always trying to break through. Acknowledge your pain. You can’t run away. 

Step 2 – Forgive yourself for being stupid, optimistic, giddy or blind  

We all want love and acceptance and will go to extraordinary lengths to secure our heart’s desire.  If we have gone overboard and thrown ourselves over the deep end, continually calling ourselves a stupid son of a bitch, a dumb hoe and a friggin idiot, won’t make the pain go away. The shit you pile on your head will only intensify the heartbreak.  Forgive yourself for loving more than you should have.   

Step 3 – Erase, eradicate, destroy, burn and blow up any lingering evidence of the moron who used to be your boyfriend  

Constantly reading old emails, dialing his number, staring at his Valentine’s Day card will only remind you of the one day that he wasn’t a dip shit.  It will lull you in to forgetting the other 364 days that he was a bastard and a brain-dead fool. 

Step 4 – When you mess up, don’t close all the windows and turn on the gas  

Like all twelve step programs sometimes we fall off the wagon. If you call or give him some ass and you remember the instant your panties hit the floor why you hate him, give yourself a do-over.  You’re human but make sure you don’t make the same mistake twice.  Go back to step 1 and repeat. 

Step 5 – Remember who you are.  Remember that you deserve better.  Remember that you only get what you think you deserve.   

If he hurt and humiliated you and you let him, remind yourself that the shitty experience you just lived through will be the norm for the rest of your life.  No one will respect and treat you right if you can’t treat yourself right first.  Tell yourself that you’re steel.  Infuse that truth into your spine. Stand upright. 

Step 6 – If you grow weak and start to think that he wasn’t so bad.  Kick your own ass and punch yourself in the face.  A beat down will be the least of what you deserve. 

Hope this helps.   

Letting Go