What Whitney Houston’s Death Taught Me About Dating

Everyone knows where they were when Kennedy and MLK died. Well, everyone who is over 40.  For me, the same applies to Whitney Houston.

I was doing the weekend usual…watching tv (naked) with my phone in my hand.  I was debating texting a man who had basically told me, through both actions and through words, that he wasn’t what I was looking for.  Best Friend called.

“Are you sitting down?”  I thought someone had died. Like someone in her family.

Instead, it was someone in both of our families.

I was hit with a fist of dread, shock, and disbelief.

And then I felt an irrational anger.

Why? Because thin 48 year-olds just don’t up and die. Whitney’s demise=drugs=Bobby Brown.

Two seconds later, I looked it up on the internet to verify.  Bobby Brown was reportedly inconsolable. I scoffed.  Is this the same man who introduced illegal narcotics and domestic violence to my favorite pop icon? I still remember the tears in her eyes when she recounted him spitting in her face in front of their daughter. I had tears in my eyes too.

As a youngster growing up in the church, I always heard about the perils of being “unequally yoked.” They, of course, meant a non-Christian man marrying a Christian woman. For the record, I think that’s bullshit.  Today to me it means letting someone go when they don’t have my same values of kindness, thrift, education, and sobriety.  You know, the simple stuff.  Bobby Brown and Whitney were unequally yoked; I have been the same with countless men.

I sat stunned.

And then something magical happened.

I instantly deleted the text message that I was sending.  If I’m going to screw up my life and endure heartache, I want to do it on my own accord. I wanted to do it without the help of a man.

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