Hot Tears

I hate crying. I hate crying because when I start its almost impossible for me to stop. It’s pretty much over. I look light skinned after. I cry all of the chocolate away. I cry like that in the shower only. That way no one will hear me. I do. I cry.

Wait. I’m lying. Vasco Road. The path that gets me to and from work has seen many of my tears. Hot tears rolling down my cool check, burning with my vision blurry. My chest contracts in and out with my hand not serving as an adequate to tissue to wipe away the residue.

The reasons why I cry evolve as I let it flow. First, its my body and all it glorious imperfections. I then progress to my Spirit man and what I should be doing more of to make sure that I stay close to the Maker. Then my mama, my money and last but not least my man (who doesn’t exist in my life yet). The one I really want. That almost fictional character that I’ve fathomed time and time again in my mind. He who is loving and cherishing my every thought and breath. Strong armed, big dimpled face with breathtakingly kind eyes. A chocolate specimen so delectable you want to lick his skin! As the tears flow I secretly pray that he is looking for me as hard as I am desiring him…whoever he may be. The tears really flow then! A mixture of warm liquid and salt. Red and now bruised skin sensitive to even my own touch. Transforming my pretty face into an exact replica of a peach pit out of my grandmother’s garden.

Tears have a cleansing capability. They wash the soul. As hard as it is to endure a good hot cry always makes me feel better.

From Pigtails to Ponytails

My little girl just turned 9 years old. She is my only child. My pride and joy. She is liking the 26 pigtails with matching barrettes for each outfit alot less these days. The graduation from pigtails to ponytails is just as significant in a little girls life as your first menstrual cycle. It’s a rite of passage. It means that your leaving a lot of those “little girl” things behind. Playing with dolls a little less and testing the limits on the telephone. Looking at my daughter I see how she is changing already. Her face is slimming even more. Her gorgeous features are morphing her into an even more exotic beauty. My “baby” is less of a baby without me being able to get a hold of my feelings on the subject.

I think it’s hard for me because I vaguely remember who I was at that age. So uncertain, looking for confidence under a rock if I had to do. My child on the other hand is a little more free with her statements, a lot less calculated. She’s basically more comfortable in her skin. Ms. Thing is still sweet and young but thoughtful. She is not afraid to show interest in her friends and wanting sleepovers. Does it help that she got a cell phone for Christmas at 8 years old? She doesn’t really use it but by 11 I’m sure I will have to set guidelines. It’s all happening so fast. I want to slow time down. I want to go back to that Monday afternoon when I held her for the first time. She opened her eyes for the first time and looked up at me. Instant connections were made between she and I; we became linked for life.

By the time I was 13 years old I was certain that my father was a complete and absolute idiot. He knew nothing. Every word he uttered was jibberish and he needed to check himself into a mental hospital fast! My constant state of “lockdown” in my sheltered young teenage existence might have had a part in my perception of the man who was raising me. So that is why I know days of “not exactly adoration” are coming for me and my little legacy. Its nature. I can’t fight it. But its’ not my job to worry about the future so much. I’m sure the best thing for me to do is enjoy that she loves me like crazy right now.

I’ll end this post by sharing a poem my “mini me” wrote just a few days ago…

To My Beautiful Mom:

You are the key to my world and the light of me.
I love you forever and more.
The end.

*wipes tears*

I Wanna Dance With Somebody

Another "Bucket List" item for me is to "dance like nobody's watching".  Only problem is, I can't.  I want to but my feet won't move.  I've gotten in the mirror and shuffled back and forth but the thought of even "me" watching me dance makes me want to pick up the carpet and crawl under for all eternity.  Just like my singing, when I'm in my head I'm graceful, smooth, daring as I look people in they eye.  They always break contact first of course because I'm killing it.  Strangers marvel at my footwork/gyration combos. All of this with a mischievious smirk.

Delusion. I must get out more. O_o

Disingenuous Flexibility

When I'm bent out of shape I have a one track mind. I'm outraged and and disgruntled by the person, persons or occurence that has ruffled my feathers. I'm good at holding grudges and picking apart the scenario until I feel better or justified in the fact that I am unequivocally right in all ways, shapes or forms. While in my fit of self-righteous appreciation for all things Jess my vision is a blur. A red haze is about me and I am void of hearing all arguments that do not agree with the clear and precise case that I have set where I am the innocent. Everyone else may cower and accept defeat; fold in a corner and take whatever the accusation is being given.  But within the first 30 seconds I have masterminded a slew of witty quips of character assasination or decided that I will slash the tires of their 2013 Lime Green Ford Focus sedan in a fit of rage with the switchblade I forgot to put in my purse this morning.

Now, this is just me?  You may not think as violently or angrily as I do.  Thankfully all those scenarios only play out and receive life in my very vivid and strange imagination.  Normally I'm non-confrontational; passive aggressive even. I rarely make a fuss. I go with the flow.  This helps to make me extremely likeable.  People know that I will pretty much not make noise about alot of these. Does this make me a pushover in some respects? Absolutley!

But the point I think I'm making is... Going with the flow is not agreement but my silence is consent.  So my actions are not genuine. I'm not true to myself or others when I behave this way; Even if it is to keep the peace.  I struggle with this because there is a chink in my armour. I'm no longer "Jessica Princess of Integrity!" (cue viking music, suspicious wind blowing up my short leather flap skirt and a cleavage bearing leather studded ,yet rugged top).

Ehhh. I'll continue to work on it.