I usually have no problem talking about the worst parts of myself. I grew up in a society that depends on familial secrecy to uphold a cultural facade, and long ago I decided not to live in an all-black rerun of Dallas. Every time I write a blog post, I star in my own episode of Iyanla Fix My Life where I am both the host and guest. Sharing my experiences along with brash comedy and intellectual insights is the essence of this blog. As a result I have made friends, enemies, and cleared up misconceptions. All because I am honest.
I sleep well.
So, I’m pretty baffled that I have had a major life change for the past few weeks that is very hard to put into words. I have sat at my computer about 11 times wondering what I would say and how people would judge me. Writing about what’s going on in my uterus, my rape, and my habitual romantic pursuit of underachievers was a cake-walk in comparison. Even now, my palms are sweating as my brain is telling my legs to get up and watch yet another rerun of Criminal Minds.
So, here goes:
I have a boyfriend. Phew! I said it.
Yep, that’s it. That is the thing I have been coming to grips with over the last 3 weeks. I have only recently told my best of friends. Recently as in 2 days ago.
For so long being single was a part of my identity. Along with being an Ivy Leaguer, a woman, a Negro, and Brooklynite. A sizeable part of my life centers on socializing and talking with other fabulous women on topics like “Will I ever have sex again?!?” We wore our angst the same way I would my favorite purse: loud and proud. I would feel naked without my purse! And I feel naked every time I realize I have to tear down the emotional walls that I have erected in the name of self-sufficiency and ambition.
I look so much better in clothes.