Jason, the cutie with the best hugs, has been AWOL in my life for a few weeks. It hasn't bothered me much; I've been focusing on writing a book of short stories, and trying to get my life together so I hadn't noticed his absence as much as I would've had I had the time. I find that when I have something to do, something to focus on, I don't stress so much about the emotional side of me but more on the financial, tangible parts of my whole life.
But then I ran into him in a hardware store and BAM. Jason's the kind of guy who talks with his words and his eyes. Seriously, I hate using corny, cliched phrases, but the man has hypnotising eyes, and uses them to his advantage so that every word is some variant on sincere and genuine and thus clouds my mind. he wondered why I didn't text or call him. I informed him, indeed, phones work two ways, to which he replied his was broken.
Eh. Broken phone? Really? I mean...okay then.
The thing with Jason is...he doesn't seem the type to genuinely go for chicks like me. I'm cute. I'm smart. I'm funny. Jason is hot. I mean like Mississippi GodDamn hot. And through some perusal of FaceBook I noted that out of his thousand and some odd friends, majority of them were women who either know how to work an angle, know how to work Photoshop or are just that damned gorgeous in waking life. None of them have natural hair. Almost none of them wore glasses (like legit glasses, not the neo-nerd glasses with no lenses). None of those chicks looked like me.
Usually that sentiment makes me feel bad about myself; because I walk to the beat of my own drummer that sets me apart from what's normal and accepted, what's expected. And then looking around one day at my job it hit me; that's probably the reason why, or how, he could be interested in a woman like me. The women I work with, the black women, all have straight hair. Relaxers, wigs, weaves, all of them have straight hair. And my hair is 7 inches tall, thick and unruly and for the most part I leave it that way save for a headband to add some shape. These other women giggled at lame jokes dudes would tell them, resting their newly done, 4 inch nails along the guy's arm while I would be joking with the dude, telling stories, being myself.
Being myself. Being myself. Is that all I've got to do to attract men? Why didn't anybody tell me?!
I felt for awhile that being me, being different was a detriment. I was too tenacious, I was too witty and too quick. I don't kiss men's asses, instead I compliment their intelligence or give them kudos for little things they do that they don't think anyone notices (a dude with nice cologne gets me every time). Being me...rocks. Sure, it may not be getting me
Will they appreciate it enough to ask me on a date? Only time will tell...