vintage: oldie but goodie

From “Lady in Waiting” to “Waiting to Exhale,” for whatever reason it has been deemed “lady-like” to sit around waiting for… Well, for a lot of things—ie. I’m currently waiting in a waiting room full of 10 other women who are also waiting on an OBGYN who’s apparently anxiously awaiting the end of her patient-filled day—but specifically a mate, a male caller, a suitor, whatever you choose to label him.

A trip on the A train prompted today’s topic of discussion. While on the train, a man (I won’t tag the “gentle-” on that ’cause I don’t know the brother) gets on and sits across from me and my homegirl. First thought in my mind: “ehhh,” which I relay to her with the “so-so” hand motion—I’ve seen better. First thought in her mind: unprecedented perfection! which she relays with a gaping mouth and an expression that reads, “Are you seeing the scrumptiousness that just sat down over there!?” I nudge her and mouth “do somethin’ heffa”. She props up as if ready to make a move. Crosses her legs. Puts on her “I know you think I’m sexy” look. Annnndd…sits there. I sigh loudly making it clear that I am too disturbed by this anti-climactic display. She responds with the “I got this” wink. And I immediately get her plan: I’ll sit here hoping to emit enough pheromones in his general direction with such a force that they’ll surpass the beer-bellied ass-crack showing 50-somthin’-year-old (who also happens to be emitting things: all types of stank) who is standing between us. My plan: At least try to make eye contact. You’ll be able to tell if he’s semi-interested and then possibly (dare I go here?) SAY something.

Here, folks, exists the great divide and the fuzzy lines that make women’s lives that much more complicated. Judging by how well I know them, if I were to take a poll amongst 40 of my closest girlfriends, when asked if they are the approach-er or the approach-ee, the response would fall evenly over both sides. Some women believe in going after what they want—and unfortunately oft-times get labeled as a hussy, harlot or whore because of it—while others believe that a man will come after what he wants and all we are to do is sit and wait for him to decide to. Then, there are those who fall in the middle. This is where I dwell: In limbo. Basing my actions on what each particular situation calls for. It’s always interesting, however, to venture into the minds of the die-hards: those of my sisters who will have it no other way than the way they are set in. They make the sides of this coin extremely interesting and at times straight comedy.

Ms. Sarah Jackson, my nana, may her ultra-femme soul rest in peace, used to say, “If you go after a man you’ll be going after him for the rest of your life, even if you marry him.” As much as nana’s words make sense, I’m still left with questions. Like, Does it not set us back a couple centuries in choosing to sit on some lit display like some pastry awaiting a customer? And is it okay, ladies, that we have accepted the whole “oh girl you have to teach him because you know men are slow” once in a relationship but we fail to carry that over into the courtship arena by initiating the acquaintance?

On one manicured and gloved hand I agree with my nana (Ms. Jackson if you’re nasty). I mean what girl doesn’t want to be wooed and pursued. After all “Ain’t I a woman”? On the other gloved hand (the glove: black leather, the hand currently balled, raised and fighting the power) the rationalization of the notion “a man will come to you if he wants you” slightly irritates me. And at the risk of border-lining feminism I ask, “What about what I want??” Can the same not be applied? There’s a thin line between being a diamond to be worked for and a croissant to be chosen. I mean are these our only choices? Pastry or princess-cut, either way you end up in a glass case.

All in all, whichever approach utilized, I guess you end up attracting guys who respond to your way of handling things… And if you get bored with a certain type, just for sh!ts and giggles you can always switch it up. Nibble on another one.

What?? Girls like pastry too.*

So, ironically (and you’ll understand why in a minute), I’ve been having this ongoing conversation with my girls about dudes and swag. If you have no idea what this is–please allow me to enlighten you. Not too much unlike Webster’s definition of swag as “valuable goods,” the term swag is an undeniable charisma, a je ne sais quoi that gives an individual influence or power over a large number of folk. In my book, swag is something you’re just born with, kinda like sexiness. Few have the raw version of it, and most others try too damn hard to have it and end up making fools of themselves. My favorite brand of swag is the type the hood manufactures. The kind that allows you to grow up out of struggle, use the charm of your personality to flip your talent into a multi-billion dollar business (legally) all the while acquiring a genuine respect from those in and outside of the aforementioned hood. Having swag can get you a loooonnnngg a&& way. It’s not something you can buy in a store, not something you can learn, and it’s not a quality you can fake.

With that being said, here enters the irony of the conversation. Walk with me down Fulton–yes in BK– to the 52 bus on Lafayette, cue stage left a tan and brown Maybach with tan curtains, pulling slowly into the area specifically marked BUS, and parking. No cars honk, even the buses slink by quietly, shameful in the presence of this immaculate vehicle. A middle-aged white man, seemingly a lil tipsy, wanders up in awe and touches the glass of the back window as others around seem to hold their breath at his nerve. The chauffeur gets out and saunters around the huge posterior of the beauty, as the slightly stumbling man steps back, and smoothly wipes the window clean of the man’s fingerprints with a white handkerchief.

Cars, buses and people continue to pass–all obviously wondering who the hell could this be in this Maybach arrogantly positioned directly in the way of all traffic; yet no one says a word to the driver now waiting outside the ride. “Waiting for what???,” everyone is wondering as you may be as well. Wait, there’s a huge security guard across the street in the …wait…is he in the bodega?? What the hell? Oh who but who would be classy enough to be chauffeured in a Maybach but hood enough to want anything from a bodega? Just when curiosity was becoming overwhelming, the 6′7″ bodyguard walks across the street holding the hood-infamous black bag with a white-paper-wrapped hero and a soda (!). He walks over to the car, opens the back door and hands the sandwich to none other than…yes, that’s right, the swag-master himself H-O-V. THE ROC IS THE BUILDING LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!

No groupies ran up, no cameras flashed but silently diamond signs went up all down the block, in respect for a man who can eat a hero from the borough from which he came while sitting in his plush custom-designed Maybach.

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THAT, my dear friends, is SWAG.