In the last few days, I've received a bevy of text messages, phone calls and face-times asking my advice about various penis-in-the-vagina scenarios involving friends of mine in the possession of the latter.
I get all the who, what, when, where and why's of my former single gals in arms who are all still out there in the trenches every Saturday night (or not). And I always dutifully respond with the wisdom and sophistication of a woman of my station. "Fuck that monkey shit!" and "Lawd, girl, leavemlone, leavemlone, leavemlone!" are my go-tos.
But here's the thing, I'm not married, engaged or otherwise officially sanctioned by whatever the governing body on Knowing What The Fuck You're Talking about is. My only qualification? I gotta man. Whatcha man gotta do with me? Apparently everything.
"Stop! in the name of love, and listen to all my stupid advice."
I never wanted to be one of those broads who, immediately after battening down the hoo-ha hatches, becomes all holier than thou when it comes to boy-girl stuff. Don't you just want to mush those would-be Dr. Philomena's in the mouth? Like the time this one friend of mine said about my relationship and referring to my non-engaged status, "Oh please this little thing [wiggles her fingers in our direction] ain't even for real for real yet." She almost got body slammed.
But then I've done the same damn thing when asked for expert comment on a lovers-n-friends situation that seemed to be sucking up too much of my girl's good sense.
In my best Iyanla Vanzant voice: "You need to sit back and reassess how this is affecting you. Is it keeping you from giving one hundred percent to the guy who's ready for something real? It all boils down to what you want." Yeah, OK, thanks coach.
But they keep asking -- I assume based solely on the fact that I've managed to banana peel my way into a committed relationship with someone I'm head over heels about. Really it was just dumb luck and perhaps the very smart planting of several seeds otherwise known as telling his homeboys that he could "get it." Basically the exact opposite of what you're supposed to do to land a live-in, and it worked.
I was on a panel about "black love" (see?) a few weeks ago and one girl asked when exactly do men decide to settle down. When I answered, "Whenever they hell the feel like it," she seemed unimpressed, a bit deflated actually. So I pumped up her jam with some hot air about "attracting what you reflect" (huh?) and "allowing men to have their cake and eat it, too." I'm positive she went home, wrote that down in her diary and then maybe prayed on it.
Who actually NEEDS coaching? Seriously. If someone could actually tell you all the things you're supposedly doing wrong in the love game would you play it differently or just find another court where nobody knew how bad your jump shot was?
For my part, now I'm wondering if anyone even wants my fake wisdom or is it just polite to ask after one's penis-ier half. Like how I always ask my friends with kids about their kids but I don't want to know about their kids. Still, I do the smile and nod when they tell me all about Lil' Lebron's latest discovery -- his belly button! Gah! Oh, Lebron.
Do I sound that much different after waxing pathetic for a full five minutes on the importance of setting boundaries, developing a routine at home and also figuring out how to not make your undies smell like his basketball shorts in the wash? I don't know.
It's a weird mix of me being pretty proud that I've found a total stranger and made him MINE! (and me his and us our own and love yourself first and blah blah blah) and everyone else wanting to know the magically potion I put in his coffee that makes he come home every night. Sugar.
Maybe there's a wealth of girly girl knowledge somewhere inside my unconscious that I have yet to tap into and use to fry bacon with my brain. Thus far, I haven't dug up much aside from the occasional gem, "He sounds like a narcissist." Don't we all?
To dig into some more non-advice about what to do when you're deflecting follow Helena on Twitter.