Lie to You

Ladies and gentlemen, I think I finally have the dating game figured out. My new strategy is simple: lie.

Yes, lie – because apparently honesty isn’t getting me anywhere. And I have considered the possibility that it’s all me, that I’m a poor communicator, that I’m not capable of saying exactly what I want, that I’m not pretty enough, that I need to lose weight, that I need to dress like a lady, that I need to stop cursing all the f*@#ing time. There is some truth in all of those things, but the reality is that’s only 20% of the problem. Now I get it. It’s not me – IT’S YOU.

When I say you, I mean all of you baby boys. You know, the ones who we good women give credit for being men the moment we meet you, but we forget that you actually might be a 35-year-old little boy. We forget that you were raised in the same streets as the low-lives that we wouldn’t give the time of day. We forget that, as much as you talk about how much you want a “real woman,” yo dumb ass might not actually be capable of handling one. We good women give you undercover baby boys WAAAAYYY too much credit.

Do you know the sad reason I still drive an ’06 G35 instead of stepping up to an ’09 M35 like I really want to? Baby boys. Baby boys who pretend like they want to be with a woman who’s capable of doing her own thang, but in reality, a woman with her own sh*t intimidates them. For the life of me, I can’t understand it, but somehow my ride being flyer than yours translates in your weak ass mind to you somehow being incapable of taking care of my needs. Somehow my swag undermines your manhood – in your weak ass mind. I know it; I watched your whole game switch-up the moment you realized how I was rolling. Something in you said, “she’s not to be played with.” Now that you’ve dropped back on your pursuit, am I not to assume that it’s because you’re intimidated and afraid of rejection? Hey numskull, peep this: the ’06 G35 doesn’t change the fact that I’m a woman with needs, that I like to be held at night, that I appreciate flowers, candy, and hand-written birthday cards. Just imagine, if cats are intimidated by a bruised-up G35, how would they act if I roll up in a brand new M? Presumably the same way they acted when the G was brand new - scared.

Back to the undercover baby boy. He’s the one who brings his own to the table too, however, he’s not accustomed to meeting a woman who is as well. He goes on murmuring about being single, complaining that he can’t find a lady who is his match. Yet when he’s finally confronted with his reflection, he runs - just like the baby boy these streets raised you to be. Look, baby boy, I know what your problem is. You’re scared of rejection, you’re scared of losing control, you’re scared of falling in love. You’re so used to impressing simple women with simple sh*t - and you think you’ll have to do triple somersaults to impress me. You’re scared of doing gymnastics - probably because you don’t want to land on your ass. Can’t say I blame you. But why do you try to make me think I’m crazy? As if there is something wrong with me. Hmph, I ain’t neva scared (doesn’t that make me more of a man than you?).

*Sigh* I could see how I would intimidate you, or undermine your manhood – in your simple ass mind - like I said before. So I’ll tell you what I’m going to do for you from now on...you know, to make it easier for you to feel like a man. So that you can go on believing that your presence alone is enough to impress me (even though truthfully, it really is - and I’ve told you that before, but now I see that I have to dumb myself down in order to make it less “too-good-to-be-true” for you). I’m gonna make myself an “easier catch” in your eyes, so I can stop looking like a whole heap of work to you, or like a “high-maintenance chick” as you’ve referred to me before (wow...I’ve been handling my own business for over a decade, but somehow I appear “high-maintenance” to you). I get it, you’re lazy, and not into gymnastics. Especially when there’s a “low-maintenance” broad who’d be happy to have you – and you don’t have to do back flips to get with her. So ok, here we are. Here are the new lies that I’m going to tell you. I hope they subconsciously boost your ego so that you feel comfortable enough to actually pursue me.

1. This is actually my dad’s car.
2. This was my grandma’s house.
3. No, I’m not in a dual-doctorate degree program.
4. What am I doing at UPenn you ask? Oh, I only got in to Penn because my Aunt works there.
5. I bought this Gucci bag on 52nd St.
6. I really don’t understand modern politics, or the theory of relativity. In fact, I’m pretty stupid.
7. I don’t know how to change a tire, or install an air conditioner, or stain in polyurethane, or hell, even screw in a light bulb. In fact I’m totally helpless. Could you please help me put gas in my car? Err…I meant my dad’s car.
8. I’m not cool. I don’t even listen to hip-hop - that Cam’ron cd belongs to my bother-in-law.
9. I don’t watch sports at all. Who’s Donovan McNabb? And what’s a safety?
10. I have no culture. What is this cabernet sauvignon and white zinfandel you speak of? Are they rock bands?

There. Am I now sufficiently enough of a non-challenge that you’re willing to put in the ounce of work in takes to get me? Right, that’s what I thought. Bitch ass n*gg*s. Smh.