The Story of Jorge

He could not tell I was annoyed or maybe he could from the twenty-eight minute wait in the lobby. The only working bank employee avoided direct eye contact with any of the bank's patrons waiting in the small sitting area. I struck up a conversation with a friend I noticed sitting in a chair not far from where I was. He used to live in the same high-rise as my husband and I. We talked about his travel to London and his plans to visit Japan. We also spoke about business and community politics, mainly broken promises from our city leaders. He was happier than usual. He spent about 90% of his time in London where "business dealings are better than in the states because a handshake is a handshake."

He was up next so our conversation ended abruptly when the bank employee beckoned for whoever was next. The employee, whose name I learned was Jorge, seemed to be having an okay day. He was tall and noticeably uncomfortable about something. He was a big man but appeared as though he could own a small cat and a potted plant. My friend finished his transaction in a short time, and I was up next. Sitting in front of him, I could see that Jorge had a few things going on in his life after he left the bank. He appeared anxious and uncomfortable in his suit.

I gave him my ID and after he made a few jokes about my photo I gave a look that meant "let's speed things up, buddy." He took the hint, and as he was typing my information into his computer, I noticed a slight head nod and then a shake, another one, and another one. He was falling asleep right in front of me. The head nod meant his eyes were drooping and the shake was to keep from falling into his computer. He had the process down. I felt justified in telling him that he probably needed some coffee and more sleep. The unexpected part came when he said it was a medical condition.

"The man has narcolepsy," I thought to myself.

Jorge then proceeded, as if I were family,  to tell me about his undiagnosed diabetes and sleep apnea, all things I was familiar with because I have a family history of diabetes and my brother has sleep apnea. Then, Jorge shared the story of a mini heart attack he had a few months earlier due to his self-diagnosed love of Monster Energy drinks, he did not stay up late, and had a habit of bingeing on hamburgers and fried food. He was going to get his doctor results back in a few weeks to see if he indeed had diabetes and if he needed a sleep device to get some rest.

I could empathize with him. His struggle to live unrestricted and at the same time enjoy all that life has to offer had caught up with him.

I explained that I lost two aunts and my grandmother to diabetes and my mother has the disease. I cautioned him against the medicine most doctors would prescribe and kindly told him to lose fifty pounds, completely cut the Monsters, and take back control of his life.

Jorge nodded in agreement.

As I walked out of the bank, Jorge told me to take care of myself.

I smiled and said, "no, you, take care of yourself" with a nudge to his left shoulder.

"I will try."

Girls Love Beyonce

I've come to understand that even the preacher's wife loves Beyonce.
She also loves the vanity of fashion and celebrity culture.
I hide these things as if not liking them will make me more liked by the women I look up to.
Uninformed thinking.
She like me is human, woman, educated, its no wonder why we share this similarity.
Besides, the shame I feel for feeling Bootylicious is not biblical.
I was born with it.
I was encouraged to love who I am and despise the flesh.
I was told to suppress the parts of me that seek pleasure and strength from the womanhood I possess.
My undoing was mass produced.
Women like me struggle in the same way, hoping that freedom comes in rejecting their wants.
But there is no freedom found just contradictions.
Each woman must live by her own convictions.
In the spirit of rapper and singer Drake, yes, Girls Love Beyonce.
I will not apologize for it.

How much attention do you want?

How much attention do you want is the question I thought to myself after two females plopped down beside me in super low halter tops and midriffs. My mother and the culture I was raised in asked me to pick one or the other. I could either slightly expose cleavage, a slither of my waist, or my legs. To show more than one of these things was "fast" or what "loose" women did.

So, how much attention do you want I ask again? The generation coming behind my thirty-year-old self will make up their own rules, and that's okay, but again how much attention do you want or how much do you need? How much did you go without as a child? How much are you trying to make up for as an adult?

The argument that women get tons of unwanted cat-calls and lude remarks is valid. Yes, some men need to learn self-discipline and impulse control. However, just like a back and forth argument with my sisters, who is going to be the bigger person? Who is going to put a stop to the madness? Women, are we brave enough to address our need for attention and the need to feel love and belonging are the true reasons why some of us leave the house showing everything God gave us? That is the real question. I am concerned with the "why." Why we engage in this behavior? What are we after? Why we look for and push away certain kinds of attention only to go out looking for it the next day in the same way.

How much attention do you want?

If it is a lot, then do what garners you a lot of attention. You can do a Google search for what gets instant attention, your options are limitless. If you are after mild appreciation, there are examples of that in our society as well. If you want none, well scroll through my Instagram and gaze at my cleavage-less pics. I'm cool with it because what I am after cannot be manufactured (plus, I'm married. Things change after making such a commitment).

What about you?

Whatever you want, you will have. You just can't always control the response to your output.