By: Taelor. L. Clay
Naturalistas, feel free to “yass” in harmony. There is nothing better than pulling apart your two strand twists and the resulting curls are bouncing and indeed behaving. I worked hard. It took me an hour. But, when your hair tends to sit upon your hair like a flower in bloom, you ain’t got no worries. On your best hair day, what can REALLY go wrong? A boy. That’s what. A boy can go wrong.
that my career won’t be amazing
The other day, I was venting to my uncle about a few friends of mine that credit my success to the fact that I “am just made that way” or I’m “born smarter than them” or other crap. His response: “You’re more successful because you work harder than most are willing to”. That really stuck with me. The whole idea that I actually am in control of my destiny is terrifying and frickin’ amazing, because if that’s the case then let’s face it- my destiny is lit. I’m going to keep working hard, so cool stuff is going to keep happening. Great! Unless, of course, along comes a spider (read: distraction) (also read: boy).
I will tell anyone who will listen that I have two absolute angels as godchildren. Now I’d be lying, because they are in fact adorable little terrors, but I digress. But wouldn’t you know—for a few days recently, I’ve had them both (one is 4, the other is 1). In my house. At the same time. Since I’m pretty much godmother of the year, my home is still standing. In fact, we spent a good amount of time discussing colors, Paw Patrol and why unidentified objects on the carpet aren’t snacks. The only incident happened when one of them thought catapulting himself off the side of my bed would be a good idea. I, of course, caught him before anything gruesome went down—but why was I distracted in the first place??? Check my texts. I bet around the time of my godson’s skydiving attempt, there’s a creed of war. From a boy. I think said boy should know—if my baby had gotten hurt, I’m not above showing up at your house with Hot Sauce. Because it’d totally be his fault. Because all faults are.
Amira was genuinely confused last spring when I was in the house slugging away at making my first macaroni and cheese. When it came out #grossaf, I was deeply hurt at my inadequacy—she asked me why it was such a big deal, and I really wanted to throw my failed dish at her (but, that’s not proper roomie etiquette). Because, DUHHHH it’s mac and cheese. Only the most important dish ever. No, seriously. I don’t wanna hear anything about filet mignon or little freaking fish eggs—macaroni and cheese is pretty much the epitome of all foods, and don’t debate me. So needless to say, I scoured away until I found a perfect recipe to make up for my failure. I found it, added my own little flair, and it has been an absolute hit with everyone it has blessed. Though, I’m sure there is a boy somewhere who can’t wait to tell me he prefers boxed macaroni product (*insert expletive here*).
good terms (no seriously, all of them)
I can’t even remember the last time I argued with one of my ladies. In fact, we disagree all the time—but because we’re, oh I dunno, grown ass women… we don’t actually argue. Kay? We have grown woman discussions and when they’re big grown woman discussions, they happen over wine. Honestly, there have been several grown woman discussion that we made “big” as an excuse to include wine. Pinot, specifically. Anyhow—I have no friends I’m on bad terms with. My girls and I are warriors in burgundy matte lips. We go to art festivals, and natural hair conventions, and bars, and beaches, and – classic—malls. We go on road trips, we laugh, we conquer. Everything. Except boys.
doctor’s appointments (and other adulting)
I chose a primary care provider the other day. I did so by calling my insurance who directed me to a website with an exhaustive list of all the primary care providers near me. I also paid my car note on time, like I have been since the car was first purchased. I also hired my first handyman. Not to mention I’m about to kick butt at finding a new apartment soon, and I already have the first month, last month, and security deposit all saved up. I’m amazing at adulting. Please. Miss me with the “I hate adulting” weepy old teary-eyed Facebook posts. I was designed to adult! In all seriousness, I really have grown up a lot and learned a lot. I have learned to prevent a lot of unnecessary shenanigans, and I have learned some other stuff the hard way. It’s been cool learning how to agree to disagree, how to cook actually enjoyable food, and how to love my hair the way it came out of my damn scalp. So, as you can see, I really don’t have anything to stress over. It’s all good on this end—wait. He posted on Facebook nine minutes ago but hasn’t text me in two hours? I gotta go.