Static October 30, 2008

Static: showing little or no change: a static concept; a static relationship.

I am creative with words. I am creative with the words I say. But I am not a creative person. Never have been, quite possibly never will be. I’ve finally accepted that. I’d like to do something about it, but I don’t know what. Because I’m not creative enough to think of anything.

When I was in advertising and public relations, I grew very tired of my job because I felt like I was doing the same thing over and over. When it came to writing stories, flyer and brochure layouts, I think I sucked. I’m not visually creative at all. Even when I was in elementary school, my science project board was as as simple as you could get. Straight lines, borders and if I really wanted to get jazzy, I’d slant my letters. That’s about all I could imagine doing. Great writer, but what I was writing about was not inspiring (I guess I shouldn’t have expected it to be–it’s work!) I used to blame it on the industry, rather than the sector. That writing about homelessness and the lack of food was what was really draining my creativity.

Reality has now sunk in. Currently, I moderate panels and faciliate presentations for employers. Week after week, granted we receive new updates on the industry, I regurgitate the same info over and over and over again. That’s not the problem though. Recently, my supervisor, who is older than me, took on one of my classes since my workload has tripled. She comes back with stories on how “awesome” and “great” her classes were. She’s getting great feedback from participants like you wouldn’t believe.

So that leaves me thinking, “What the hell am I doing wrong?” My classes are good, but I wouldn’t call home about them (It takes a lot to get me excited anyway). She’s playing music, dancing and all sorts of creative little things to make the class fun. Whereas, I’ve done the class so many, many times, right now, I need to recharge. The only thing I’m focused on is getting the class DONE so I can move on. I have lost all interest in doing the “song and dance act” , hence my lack of creativity.

I’m just going through the motions. I know we all get burnt out from time to time, but this happens often. Every once and awhile, I get this bug that this job really isn’t for me. I need to get back on the job hunt or atleast get back in my field in which I have TWO degrees and make something happen.

Maybe it’s a seasonal thing with me.

PMS Blame Game October 27, 2008

Sometimes I just want to blame it all on PMS. The fact that sometimes I feel “some kind of way” that would make me seem SELFISH. The fact that sometimes, I actually want to be irritated about something.

Let me give you an example. These days I’ve been thinking back to the past and wondering how I can always invest so much time and energy into other people and their lives. Listening to how they feel, what’s wrong with them, helping them do whatever is needed to fulfill their dreams, going to their birthday gatherings, weddings, baby showers, parties and what not. How much of that do I get in return? Minus the weddings (because I’m single) and the baby showers (they can keep those for now).

Last year, my so-called pre-resolution was to close 2007 with the truth and nothing but the truth. To tell people “NO” or “You’re going to have to wait.” Or maybe, “You got me FUCKED UP!”

Needless to say, I didn’t. And here I am, right back to the same thing. Sometimes I get tired of people ___________. Period. You can fill in the blank on your own.

The bad part about it is…I feel bad or less of a good person for feeling all honory and attitudinal about whatever it is I’m feeling…

So that’s why I just want to blame it all on PMS when really, forreal foreal forreal…it’s just how I feel.

And I shouldn’t have to make up excuses or apologize for that.

The Chase October 6, 2008

I wanted you and I don’t even know why. Maybe it was because you wanted me first. Or maybe because I knew I couldn’t (or shouldn’t) have you. You were with someone else and I respected that and her. Or maybe because when I first saw you, you made wonder who you were. Why did everyone else know you and not me? Or it could be your swagger that was undeniable, even though you looks, to some, were second rate. Maybe it was the stories I heard about you. You were the bad boy. But to me you were always all good. Sweet, even.

You wanted me and you chased me. Just the way I like it. Our flirting sessions were magnetic. It was all I could do since I couldn’t have you. Even when we both tried to play the cool role, I couldn’t help but look over to see you, already knowing that you were staring at me. And when you parted with her, the chase picked a few notches. I started to dance with you at parties in front of people who knew me and knew her, too. You could twist and turn me on that dance floor, as if we belonged together. There was something between us–chemistry– that is inexplicable, even to this day.

On that May spring night, you told me you had to have me.  We’d been playing around for far too long and it was “inevitable” that we would be together. I gave it a shot, thinking about dating you. Only because I was moving on to another phase of my life. I couldn’t lie and say that I didn’t like you. I was transparent.

I stayed with you for a night. Thinking back on it now, it doesn’t even seem real. There was no “two becoming oneness” going on. You were a perfect gentleman. I’m too old now to wonder if that was part of your game. Game or not, it was what I needed at that time. For the first time in three years of The Chase, we actually talked. All bullshit and harmless flirting aside. No distractions. Just you and me.

A lot of questions that I had about you (that I didn’t want to ask anyone else) were answered. You told me your attraction to me was beyond physical. What you liked about me was that I exuded confidence and sexiness without even trying. Those were the same things I like about you. We watched movies and laughed. You weren’t the asshole I saw everyday anymore. You seemed kinda nervous. Around me? It should’ve been the other way around. You were just being you.

And when I protested you holding me because I knew it would feel too good, you didn’t get upset about it. You just laid there with me and we fell asleep together. Over in the night, I realized that you wrapped your arms around me anyway. And that was fine with me.

The sun shined vibrantly through your bedroom window blinds alerting us to the morning. It’s something about a person being the first thing you see in the morning. Your arms were still around me and I didn’t want you to let go. I knew then that from that moment on, things would never be the same. But they would have to be.

Years have passed and though not nearly as often as then, The Chase is still there. And just as often as then, I wonder if I will ever let you catch me.

She Got Her Own October 5, 2008

“I put my money in the bank…or give it to a woman.”

That’s what the security guard outside my work building said about his extra $8,000 he has as monthly discretionary income. He removes the wretched orange cone from my unofficial designated parking spot when I work late in the evenings. I knew he was going to ask me for my number when I returned to the lot. And that was his lead-in to get my interested.

Not clever at all. Pretty lame, in fact. I immediately wanted to ask him how old he was after that statement. I give him a good 23 or 24. If I was a cougar, I could take him up on his offer and pimp him blind. But clearly he was lying.

The bad part about the situation is he thought he needed to tell me how much money he has to get my attention. I don’t give a shit. I’m like Ne-Yo’s remix. I got my own! (More thoughts on this independent, “I got it” deal later.) All women are not gold diggers.

Not too many thoughts I need to vent on this one. I just found it hillarious, yet sad.

Tearing Down Walls October 2, 2008

I’ve always been a very unemotional person. Conversely, I will shed tears while looking at St. Jude infomercials or while singing my favorite Mary Mary song in the car on the way to work. Sometimes I lay in my bed and just cry to get my frustrations out.

But I’m unemotional. Outside of tears of joy, I can count on one hand the number of people who have seen me cry. It’s something psychologically engrained in my head that makes me refuse to show physical signs of sadness, hurt or anger to anyone. Think of it as that stigma that says “real men don’t cry.” Me, personally, I think that’s a handful of bullshit, but I do understand. Tears equal weakness. Sometimes. Depending on the situation.

So I don’t cry in front of people. I don’t tell people when they hurt me or why they hurt me. I like to have the upperhand and I’ve always thought that as long as I don’t do those things, I’ve got it under control.

Does that make me fucked up?

On Black Friday last year, I sat at the table with four of my closest friends from high school to have lunch and “catch up.” “Catch up” meaning a mini-interrogration about who’s dating who, why one of us isn’t dating and random shit about work and how we wish we could go back to high school days. Atleast college days.

On the other side of town, my daddy was in the hospital after suffering a massive stroke after having a triple bypass after having a second heart attack. He was half out of his mind, could barely talk and was not coming back around this way, according to his shitty “I only believe in science” neurologists. I had been up and down the halls of that hospital a million and one times, staying with him and trying to console my mother, eating day in and day out in their cafeteria, only going home to shower and change clothes.

I was physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted.

I was sitting at that table trying to be a part of the conversation. I didn’t want to be there.

Even though Daddy was able to understand us a little better and he could sign his name and walk, I knew that things would never be the same. I thought about the pain I saw in my Mama’s eyes when the doctors said he’d be “like that forever.” The gut feeling I had that something was terribly wrong after Daddy didn’t respond to my musical Mahogany card I brought him for his bypass recovery. Or the possibility that I would never hear his voice, calling me “Wook”, his favorite nickname. My stomach started to get queasy. My eyes started to fill with tears. I wanted to scream out and ask God why this was happening to my Daddy and to my family right there in the restaurant.

Instead, I looked down at my hands under the table while my friends yapped, reached in my bag for my cell phone and acted like I had to take a phone call. I kept my head down as I walked out so they wouldn’t see the tears rolling down my face. I ran in the bathroom and cried uncontrollably. Even then, I stil muffled my sobs and covered my eyes with a ton of tissue, hoping no one would come in and hear me. I didn’t leave out of the bathroom until I had completely dried my eyes and they were visible signs of my cries.

The crazy part of it all is even though I wanted to hide my tears, I wanted someone, even if it was just the server waiting outside of the bathroom, to ask me was I okay. When I returned to the table, business went on as usual. No one said a word about anything but the terrible traffic on the way to the mall.

Almost an entire year later, I ask myself why did I even agree to meet them knowing how I was feeling. Somehow I thought it would serve as a distraction and make me feel better. But another part of me knows that I always want to do what “should” be done, even if I don’t want to do it. I remember one of my girls telling me I could sit this one out because I had so much going on. But I said, “No, it’s cool. I want to see ya’ll.” And I did. But I shouldn’t have.

I’m learning as I get older to tear down all these “emotional walls” I have up.  I gotta be true to myself sometimes. All of the time. It’s more important than being true to someone else. And that means telling people how I feel and what I will and will not do.

I gotta work on that.