Thinking Kinky : The Nappy Haired Diva

photo courtesy of  www.grandparents.com I think the best way to start this off is to give you an understanding of my relationship with food. First, we have a relationship. That should say something. The healthy person eats to live, and I live to eat. I'm not sure how it all started honestly. My memory only goes back to about age 4 and at that time, I wasn't conscious of much of anything. I didn't think about my body. I hadn't compared it to anyone else. I was just as clueless about food. I never thought of eating too much or too little. I don't recall being hungry at that age. I just remember being fed. I was a picky eater. Cold cuts made me nauseous. A hot egg sandwich could be ingested but if you tossed a hot drink in the mix (like tea or cocoa), I was tossing cookies. If my dinner had too many ingredients, I picked around it. My mom was always one green pepper or onion slice away from ruining my meal. The only thing I ate to the last drop without fail wa

The knock was unexpected. I was watching "Boyz N Da Hood" on a very grainy VHS and wasn't expecting company. I'd sneak boys into the small basement apartment before but lately I wasn't in the mood for boys with their anxious hands pawing all over me, with open mouth kisses lacking coordination as they tried to feel up my shirt. Oh, it was him. He was a young man, eighteen, maybe nineteen. High School graduate. He was moonlighting as a mechanic. Mom took a liking to him. She always took a liking to the wrong men. I liked his physique. He was lean and chiseled; the build of a young man who is used to hard labor. I was attracted to him, but not enough to do much about it. Besides, he had a girlfriend who was in her early twenties. There was no competing with a young woman when you are a fifteen year old girl with a mild crush. She sent me to his house to give him some money for some work he began to do on her car. I stood on the stoop and rang the doorb

I lived most of my adult life believing I was meant to work for myself. I started off selling Avon. I would hustle my catalog to my colleagues at the investment firm I worked in and fill orders. I was building a decent client base and was receiving a small profit, however, I spent more than I earned to remain active as a distributor. Strangers had their own distributors and didn't want to purchase from me. I got tired of hitting up my clients for more sales and giving away trinkets with each purchase was dipping into my profits. Parties dwindled after the first one. Avon wasn't turning out to be the escape I needed from Corporate America. Fast forward to Arbonne. I was a beauty consultant or whatever we were called and I hosted a successful party along with developing a business selling gift baskets to peoples wives for holidays and birthdays. Again, I was obligated to have a base amount of sales so during slow months, I cut into my meager profit to meet the amount needed

I gave one last kiss to his face, my last taste of his skin the beautifully human encasement his spirit was held in. My fingertips traced his lips tenderly remembering when they once kissed me. I remembered the lust, I remembered the lies I remembered the warmth that filled his eyes. I touched his hands that once held my waist that at times would deny me, when I longed for their embrace. The times I spent seeing those lips curl into grins were now lost in the wilderness his love was in but I still ran my hands through his hair hoping to feel something there. Nothing. The eyes were empty. Heartbreak sent me to a confined place. It was a place with no light, no space, so tight that my throat began to choke on the reality of what came to be of us and my inability to breathe caused my chest to heave with every part of me squeezed, parts of me began to depart from me my tears were the first to leave. Then he rose, and looked into my eyes- a prelude to a sad goodbye An