***Hello, everyone. Please welcome Chris E. to the VSB pulpit. Since this is her first time, I added a few notes under some of her words to, um, help her out. Who said I wasn’t a gentleman?***
All the excitement of “when is he going to call?”, “I know what this text says literally, but when I stare at it long enough…”, and “why are you hiding in my car?” is done. Over. I jumped the broom into a new world of interaction with men: cordiality, appropriateness, and respect. I am a wife now, a southern preacher’s wife at that. To be admired quietly from afar, left alone with my #turndownforthis stone on my wedding band. It’s lovely and mildly terrifying knowing I’ll only hear Rick James’ “Cold Blooded” ad libs from one man for the rest of my life.
***So yeah. It’s quite difficult to pull off a full paragraph humblebrag—it took me three and a half years to learn how to do it—but Chris E. managed to land it on her first try. Wow. Good job, grasshopper. Also, is it bad that I still have absolutely no idea what any of these “turn down” references mean? Panama tried to explain it to me a couple weeks ago, but I got distracted by a video of someone twerking on a mailbox and tuned him out.***
I’m a former waitress, nightclub bartender, and Oakland resident—a city where ninjas will hop outta moving bus window for the number on you.
***From what I’ve heard about Oakland, I’m pretty sure they’re just making sure you recycle. And, by “making sure you recycle” I mean “asking if you strip.”***
Although I’ve never been dependent on it for validation, those factors made me accustomed to a lot of male attention. I live for the spectacular conversation that comes with being approached. As a screenwriter, it’s a fantastic dialogue resource. I could never come up with Too $hort banishing me from a domino game then walking across the Coliseum parking lot to inform me I put too much mustard on my hot dog on my own. What if seeing my ring suddenly stops all the Playas from the Himalayas from ever speaking up?
***You’re actually the first woman I’ve heard complain about this. Most I’ve talked to seem to consider the whole “guys won’t approach me as often if they see the ring” thing a good thing.***
A married man’s ring comes with the freak train station magnetic field. They instantly look ten times more desirable! My husband gets to motion with his left hand every other syllable in the pulpit and I have to deal with the women who lust for nothing more than their sanctified pastor. How do I stunt on the hoochie visitors if I don’t feel I’m still batting 1000? Can I look forward to keeping my lips pursed on these crows if my only extramarital affirmation of attractiveness from the opposite sex is an elder’s church hug? I’m used to being greeted with “SH*T! GOTDAMN!” Now it’s “Good morning, Sista, so nice to see you, be blessed, tell Pastor thank you for the message.”
***”Boo f*cking hoo.” — says every single Black woman ever. Seriously though, I have always wondered how married couples deal with that dynamic. Generally speaking, as men age and gain more social/financial status, our romantic options tend to increase. The opposite tends to happen with women. (Not always, but often) I can imagine that being a potential strain on a decades-long relationship.***
If this the real reason why Meagan Good wore that blue dress to the BET Awards, I totally get it.
***I get it too. In fact, I have a gallery of those pics saved to Google drive for those late nights when I’m not sure if I’ve still gotten it.***
Hearing “you’re beautiful” from same person all the time, who’s like, supposed to tell you that even when you’re looking like Gina at Martin’s high school reunion, requires a level of self-awareness on a whole nother frequency. I don’t know if I’m that self-aware. I need to be guided by feedback. Roars of applause before my boobs drop it lower than I can without being told on would be much appreciated. I don’t want to reach that Nicole Ari Parker peak wife fineness and be completely oblivious, realizing years later in a clawing panic.
***The saddest thing in life is wasted talent.***
If this is why Rasheeda made a video for “Hit It From The Back” while pregnant with dancers too uncomfortable to touch her while she rapped about fire coming out her asshole, I totally understand.
Newlywed neurosis has me buggin. I keep fearing I’ll turn into the wild auntie that makes everyone nervous at cookouts from unsolicited compliment deprivation. I live in a small town in Arkansas where street harassment is nonexistent… I can’t get a simple “smile, girl!” walking past a bum. I think about my friends and I celebrating our 30th birthday next year and tense up cause I’m not tryna be hit with the “why are you married in the club?!” diss.
***You do realize that this last paragraph gives concrete justification to all the guys who believe women actually appreciate (and need) street harassment, don’t you?” I’m just sayin.***
I don’t wanna be a dime deferred, a ragged raisin solely adored by vows and obligation. Just a flattering echo outside the home, a lil tug on my figurative bra strap, enough to know I still got it. All I ask. A bachelorette party performer named Hena C has traumatized me for eternity. I can’t seek that in strippers.
***”A Dime Deferred” is definitely a great title to a movie staring Monica Calhoun and Ron Artest that I’d never, ever, ever watch.***
Does it make a married woman insecure to enjoy hearing objective baritone fawning every once in a while?
***Yes. But, join the club.***
Where is the line drawn between post-matrimonial fun and post-matrimonial out of pocket?
***You can find more of Chris E. at Christina Wrote That or at some random southern church being subtlety side-eyed because she didn’t know all the words to Goin Up a Yonder***