Shy Girl? It's Overrated by Far...

I'm a shy girl, which to me is ironic, because I'm also super friendly and approachable. But the fact remains, when there's someone I'm interested in, it takes a lot of guts for me to just up and admit that, and even more for me to convince myself that every little thing isn't a sign that I'll get shot down.


There were times in the past when I asked to hang out with guys and it just went wrong. We'd hang out and it was either terribly boring or there was just no chemistry when we were together and that is something that's just easy to accept and move on from for me; like I gave it a shot, he gave it a shot, and it just didn't work, that's cool. But other times, dudes just flat out said "Nah, I'm good," and to a teenaged girl (at least the ones like me, I'm finding) that's like saying "I can't tell you exactly why I don't like you or want to hang out with you, I just don't," which is a harpoon to the chest for someone always seeking reason and logic. Like, have you met me? Do you see how awesome I am here? Why wouldn't you (not being narcisstic...okay maybe I am but really? I'm kind of cool.)?

I think that contributes to my shyness the most and turns it into this kind of aversion to bothering people. Whenever I get the urge to ask for anything from people that aren't my parents or close friends I always wonder or fear that I'm pestering them. Nobody wants to feel like a bother to other people, but I find that that's frequently what it feels like to me to even take a chance outside the norm for a person.

Prime example is that I've been trying to ask Johnny from work to hang out for like a week, but one thing after another keeps getting in the way. Wrong numbers here, not enough time there, we don't see each other in the office as much, and it's just like 'Maybe that's your sign, Tes.' But for once though...I don't think it is. Yes, I've tried sending texts that he apparently doesn't get and I've tried calling (damn you, error 505...)  and it's just not it for me. So I've decided to do the thing I haven't done in ages, the unthinkable (no Alicia)  and just bite the bullet, wait until I see him, and ask.

It's funny that when I think about it, it terrifies me, but somehow I know that when I get to talking, it won't even seem that big a deal for me. I feel comfortable in myself, and enough in him, to know that he's not just gonna clown me in the street on some "YOU?! HELL NAH SON!" He's a nice guy, I'm a nice girl, and it won't get to that level. And it took me four years of fearing the rejection to finally have the epiphany that, yeah, that sh*t'll sting, but it won't be the end of me. And if he doesn't want to, or can't, that won't be the end of us as friends. And I'll still be the nice girl, and he'll still be the nice guy, but I'll have gotten just one step out of this chalk outline that I've drawn for myself as the shy girl.

Scars Go Deeper Than You Think

I am a girl with prominent acne scars and they make me feel unpretty.

I've never written that, or even said it aloud before, but the fact remains that it's still truth. They were right; truth hurts.

I would suppose it started when puberty did, around 11 years ago when Mother Nature went all "I've Got The Golden Ticket" and dropped Aunt Flo by for her first of many visits. Until that point I'd seen teen aged girls with acne and I thought it was like on TV, just make up that they could take off at any time they wanted to. That was until I started getting pimples of my own.

I was so self-conscious and always trying to assimilate to new surroundings as a shy girl that acne was the last thing I wanted to happen, and so it began. It was a cycle; the pimples would come and I'd feel ashamed, I'd pop, squeeze, tease, poke and prod them until they popped, I'd feel ashamed, they'd scab, the rough patches would drive me crazy with how they'd never just smooth over and go away so I'd pick, only to make huge scars, which made me more ashamed. Rinse, repeat.

It never occurred to me that it was a stress reaction until recently when I noticed I was doing it again (that and gaining weight). I don't think I know how to un-stress; my reaction to stress is to get depressed which, as you can guess, really doesn't help the situation at all, but rather perpetuates it.

I try to hide it; I'm the peppy, friendly girl. I've got the headful of confident curls and brains, an easy smile and a soft voice that speaks strong words but... But the sides of my bath tub should be sponsored by Bath & Body Works in conjunction with SoftSoap. My sink looks like a dermatologist's spread with creams, ointments, treatments, astringents, scrubs and cleaners. And I stand in the middle of it all holding a make-up brush inches from my face.

I try not to be ashamed, and I try to feel prettier. I try to see past the scars into the person. I want to will myself not to hide who I am, my flaws behind CoverGirl's mask of pressed powder and feel okay about it. Other people keep their scars and insecurities inside, why can't I? And with a decided flick of the wrist, I tell myself I'll stop wearing make-up tomorrow. Or Saturday. Two weeks. Until. Maybe.

And the funny thing is, even with all the make-up on, even with all the discoloration hidden and smoothed I still feel the same. I still feel as if the world can see that I'm a girl who doesn't handle her stress well, and I take it out on my own face. I wonder what it would take to make me feel confident enough to not be ashamed to say that I get stressed. That I get depressed. That I get lost. But I just turn away and I don't think of it again until I have to face another mirror...

Life Is Funny With How It Evolves You

"A clean house is note of a life unlived." -Anon.

My room is clearly evidence of said quote, as when I look around it all I see is stuff, stuff and more stuff. Kind of like an understandable version of "Racks on Racks" except with actual items; make-up, shoes, clothes, purses, and accessories litter my floor as if two super models stay here (except there are food wrappers scattered around so...).

I've been a bustling broad lately; I work 8 hours a day, five a week, and spend a lot of time at work, on my way to work, or preparing for work. The rest of the time I spend sleeping, shopping, or eating, the latter of which has gained me five pounds that I'm desperately trying to get rid of. Don't get me wrong, I love the thickness, but I'm trying to be in my normal range of 140-155...anything else means I'm running up and down my flight of stairs until it hurts me.

I didn't use to have time for make-up, nor use. I had a lot of acne scars growing up and would spend my time with different concealers and powders, bases and creams, trying to fade them and hide them when one day I realized, somebody is going to be very upset if I'm flawless in the face when they ask me out, and flawed as hell when they take me out. I figure I want people to see what I look like naturally, and to be honest, I'm not all that bad. As W tells me often, it could be much much worse on some "Oh bless your heart," type sh*t.

I'll be honest, I absolutely love clothes shopping. I never used to have the means to go out and browse and try on because I knew if I did I'd want to buy and I'd be strapped for cash. Now? Dresses and slacks, blouses and skirts, heels and wedges (oh my!); no item is safe. I love things that fit flatteringly, things that don't require "support garments." I like to look nice, but not as nice as I've been trying to look lately.

See there's this guy at work...I'm not sure what it is, but I'm just feeling him. He's not necessarily my "type" per se but I still dig him. Let's call him Johnny. Johnny is...techy. He's funny. He's got lots of stories and seems like a really nice guy. Plus he has a deep kind of voice which so sweetens my tea. He makes me blush, actually, which is really tough to do, and he does it with little gestures here or words there, maybe a look...

I'm not really myself...I mean, I'm not who I'm used to being. I'm used to being high-strung and worried. I'm used to feeling unpretty and unproductive. I'm used to not feeling like I'm capable of what I wish I were. I shouldn't say I am, but rather I was. I was that high strung wallflower girl, but now...I'm that woman stepping tentatively into her own little niche of spotlight. And I'm a woman with a crush on a guy that makes her blush.

Womanhood was sneaky, but man, is the payoff worth it.

I Am Not My Hair (Except Yeah, I Kinda Am)

I have issues voicing my opinions to my father; I know it and anyone who's heard me talk to my father knows it goes deeper than just being a daddy's girl.

In my mind, when I was younger I used to think that if I was a better little girl, prettier, smarter, or better yet, perfect, he wouldn't leave so often and he wouldn't pick everything else over me anymore. I never felt quite good enough growing up because of that mindset, and so I wouldn't say anything contrary to what my dad said. Ever.

Fast forward to three days before his wedding and imagine his face upon seeing his little girl who used to wear sleek, smooth and shiny straight hair come off a plane with curly, kinky, big hair. The first thing he did? Hug me and touch it on the sly. The first thing he said? What are we gonna do about your hair? He asked me would I be willing to straighten it.

At first I was okay with it, at least that's what I kept telling myself; I am not my hair and whatever. However, the more I thought about it the more uncomfortable I became with the idea that to be accepted I had to change a part of me that had come to represent my metamorphosis from girl to woman. It represents me becoming a new person who makes her own choices and it kept getting harder and harder to give that woman up.

I am not my hair, except yeah, I kinda am.

I feel like my hair suits me in ways that are easy to explain but hard to justify. It's more work than my straight hair ever was, but I love it; nothing feels quite as cool as walking in the rain while other women are just a-running. My hair makes me feel sexy and smart, beautiful and strong. My hair makes me feel like I've been waiting to feel about myself for my whole life.

And so in the end, I told my father no, I wouldn't be straightening my hair, but I wouldn't mind other alternatives. And he completely respected it. The bridal party did too, to a point. My hair was gelled within an inch of it's life, held up with three industrial strength rubber bands and wrapped in a stray track of hair from a discarded packet of YAKI. But what made me smile then, and what makes me smile now, is the fact that even under all that, my hair was still my hair (and it was curling despite that damn Jam).

Womanhood Is Sneaky

I've been catching my parents looking at me. I mean, yes, they can look at me however they want cause, you know, I'm theirs and whatnot, but the look has changed a little. It's kind of like that look I see them with in all my baby pictures, but it's also a little sad. Sometimes they just look at me like a stranger, as if I'm a body-snatcher in their kid's body.

That, and a few other things have led me to believe that I may be a woman now. When did that happen?

Sometime in the last few weeks I've felt...different. My job is going fine, I'm saving my money and painting my life in my mind's eye with broad brush strokes. I'm more accepting of myself as a person who, admittedly, has flaws like anyone else. I'm more ambitious with my dreams. I'm less focused on what my life is missing, and more so what it's full of that I love. I'm a woman.

I'm focused on myself as a person and understanding what it means to be me now, and what it'll mean to be me in the future. I'm cleaving more to my own understanding of the world than what I'm told of it and see of it. I still dig poetry and music, so not a lot about me has changed in my own eyes; I still feel like the same person, but I'm being looked at differently. Like a woman.

I feel as though womanhood just snuck up on me.  When did it all happen?

It's Been Ten Years...

Ten years ago today it was unusually rainy. Usually in most parts of Texas it'll rain for a few minutes and then stop completely, but that day, it rained the whole day and night. The world felt different and somehow lacking in something. Ten years ago, Aaliyah died. Ten years...has it really been that long?

Today, here in Texas, it's unusually cloudy and rainy as well and I'm reminded of the sadness that I felt that day but also the joy that I feel now. I find that there is still that sadness at her passing, but whereas so many people get caught up in the loss, I like to think of it as if (as DMX said) we've just gone a long time without hearing any new Aaliyah. I find joy and happiness and so many of the things I think I'm lacking when I listen to her. She was the ultimate in sexy - the kind of sexy where you know it, you feel it, but it's not overt and all over the place. Classy. Sensual. Sweet. And always herself.

My father had always held Aaliyah in the highest regard; if he wanted me to grow up to emulate anyone it would be Aaliyah. No pressure or anything. For the most part I agree with him that, when I grow up, I want to have that same sort of essence about me that's undeniable. That essence that's sure and calm, mysterious but light. I'd want the wisdom she always had behind her eyes, and the sly smile that always played across her lips when she'd thought of something witty. But more than all of that, I'd want to be myself, just as she was always herself, and if that's the case, then I'm already on the right path.

I have too many well loved Aaliyah song's to pick just one, so how about five? 1) Came to Give Love; it always reminds me of my purpose in life (minus fans of course). 2) I Can Be; it's nothing like what you'd expect from her, but exactly what you'd expect from her. 3) All I Need; it explored her deeper range vocally as well as by genre. 4) At Your Best (Remix); cause that sh*t's just smooth and classic. 5) It's Whatever; it makes me feel heavy and weightless at the same time - it reminds me to keep being the hopeless romantic I am in the hopes of one day knowing exactly what she's talking about.

I often wonder where she would be now. What she'd be doing. I'd like to think she'd have come out with a rock infused album. Maybe a classic, old school album too. She'd be sought out for Tyler Perry movies for sure, but I think she'd politely turn most of them down until he came up with something really good. She'd be trying comedies and dramas mostly, but maybe a horror here and there. Maybe she'd be writing. She'd have changed her hair, maybe cut it, and left women everywhere trying to emulate her sleek style. And maybe she and Dame would still be married.

It's fun to dream. Where do you think she'd be now? Any favorite songs? Remember her, today and any day where you think there aren't truly beautiful people in the world.

I Always Forget Something...

It's funny how rides on planes always make me feel like I've forgotten something.

As clouds rolled by like trees on a roadtrip, I wondered why things always seemed so much harder on the ground. What about being above it all made me feel so...above it all? And why did I always feel as if I was leaving something behind, be it an attitude, an item, a person?

I flew into my home state for my dad's wedding; it was beautiful actually. Maybe living in Texas has that effect where seeing green grass and trees excites a person, but the air felt truly clean down there; I found myself taking deep breaths and reveling in breezes more often than I do at home.


I felt more relaxed. Sure, it was a stressful time as I played bride assistant and cheerleader (for both bride and groom) and a new role of "big sis" (which is taking time to get used to), but at the same time I just felt...better. I wasn't tired, I wasn't anxious, I was just fine.

A small dinner party the day before the wedding introduced me to a plethora of new people, one of whom caught my attention in roughly 4 minutes. He's a lanky type of dude, taller than me by at least six inches. Very quiet nature about him, with squinty, wise brown eyes. Conversing led me to believe that he was older than he was, which made me feel like such a cougar for even vibing him like I was, but maybe it was my new attitude that made me just not give a damn.

The wedding came; it went as perfectly as weddings usually go. It was calla lily themed and classy. I wore a wine dress with matching shoes and a hair weave that nearly split my head open (nother post, nother time). The bride was beautiful and the groom composed and handsome (and I'm not just saying that because I'm related to them either, they're seriously super cute). My dress fit perfectly (the shoes were gorgeous, so of course they hurt) my natural hair (gelled within an inch of it's life) had held throughout the wedding and exorbitant amounts of dance tracks (although under my gelled "swoop" bang I held a tissue to stop the brown goo from weeping- so not sexy).

I had my first slow dance ever, albeit a little off beat, with the young heart throb who, at the end of the night, told me how good I looked (even though he later said I looked prettier with my hair the way I usually wear it which was a "yay" moment). My family of instigators literally ran with that, let me tell you, and started wanting to all of a sudden ask me how I was doing, if I was seeing someone, yada yada. What can you do?

What did I do? I rolled with it; usually I'd get all high strung about it but I realized that they've never seen me, not the real me anyway. They see the little girl in the big dresses and shiny Mary Janes. They see the awkward preteen with braces and really terrible acne. They've never seen the me that's real, the me under all that, and the young'n brought out the best of the real me; I heard 'em say I was blushing glowing, and it's true that when I hear the right things a glow does happen. And when the young'n speaks and looks so earnest and intent...well, yeah, I was glowing. I was energized and dancing, socializing, hugging, speaking briskly but eloquently to all the guests who wandered by.

It was such a nice night. It was such a nice trip. And as soon as I landed back in Texas it all felt like a dream; I got tense and was thinking ahead a mile a minute. And then I looked in my phone and saw messages from the young'n, reached into my purse and felt the necklace that I wore to match the shoes, and remembered while inhaling the sweet smell of tree-grass-and-dirt that centered my anxious spirit.

I always leave things behind I suppose, but it's the things that I can take with me that make more difference.