I know this guy. We’ll call him Sam. I don’t know why exactly I want to call him Sam. I guess because maybe Sam is a better name for a Black man than Tom. Albeit barely.
Sam is not really my friend, although we know each other a little friendlier than the folks you see in passing at events and parties and what not.
Sam likes me. I know this, because he never lets a moment go by either by text or e-mail or social networking site correspondence that he would like me to be his “woman”. Yeah, you’re thinking, Awwww, Envy, That’s so sweeeeeeeet. Absolutely. It’s sweet until it happens to you isn’t it? See, the problem with Sam is that I can’t stand to talk to him for more than 5 minutes at a time. I don’t know why, he just irks me to no end. The way he thinks. The way he talks. The way his breath smells.
I mean, I could probably handle the annoyance for longer than 5 minutes if I didn’t think it would by necessity lead to a face to face, which would, by necessity lead to my having to plug my nose to speak to him. It’s rude, isn’t it to have one’s entire palm covering one’s entire half of one’s face when someone is speaking? Yeah, that’s kind of rude.
I offer him mints when I see him out, I don’t think they have industrial strength mints enough that cover the kind of halitosis that stems from deep within one’s intestinal tract. Like his breath stank from a place so deep, I’m thinking his shit must smell like roses.
I’ve tried to gingerly mention his breath problem to him, but I always feel awkward about it and end up just offering my last 3 or 4 pieces of gum. He of course, is either very aware of his bad breath or so far in denial he thinks nothing of the people who fall at his feet when he sneezes or breathes out too deeply.
I often wonder how people get away with not being at all self aware. My girlfriends and I laugh a hearty laugh at the male people we know who actually buy and wear magnum condoms when an extra small one may could be loose on them. Of course, we giggle at the notion, but stuff like that happens all the time. Like the girl in the club who’s maybe 2 or 3 hundred pounds over the weight limit for the halter tube top with the spaghetti straps (with no bra) and the gold lame stretch pants. I’m not judging, I’m just saying. Societal norms be damned for all I care, but lacking self awareness? That’s just wrong.
For example, I am perfectly aware that I am in no danger of being married anytime soon because I have created a fictitious Prince Charming in my head that has very specific body measurements, an above average brain capacity, doesn’t play Play Station or Xbox (I know, pushing it), likes poetry, sings like a humming bird, makes love like a Mandingo warrior, is sweet, kind, caring, is a total freak, likes kids but doesn’t have a bunch, thinks I’m perfect exactly the way I am, and…well, I know I’m crazy. But I am self aware. If you were to say to me: “good luck with that Envy.” I would say, “I know, right.”
Don’t you also wonder how people on those reality shows like ‘American Idol’ and ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ are actually devastated because they’re actually horrible, but still devastated when the judges say things like: “you should probably find a different dream”?! Or “you suck!”. Not to say that I’m a fan of dream killers. Because we can name lots of folks who ain’t really all that talented, who probably wouldn’t have made it on any of those reality shows, but still created a career for themselves despite sucking so very badly.
Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe self awareness isn’t really all that important. At the end of the day, it really doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of you. All that matters is what you think of yourself, right? If you think your breath smells like roses when everybody else needs a gas mask to speak to you face to face…. Or if you love the way you look when your breasts hang down to the floor with that halter tube top with the spaghetti straps (and no bra) with the gold lame stretch pants; and you don’t give a damn that the girls all cry real tears laughing at your ass for wearing a monstrous condom on your little teeny penis… hell. Maybe we’re the ones with the problem after all. Societal norms be damned. Do you boo.
The moral of this story? I can’t think of any. Thanks for reading this though. Peace and abundant self awareness blessings (or not). -e-