The Sky is Falling!

I am tired of the proliferation of articles/programs/books about Professional Black Women Not Being Able to Find a Man!  Or as my other professional Black women friends and I call it: The Sky is Falling!

The coverage has ranged from philosophical (there are not enough Black men to go around because all of them are either flocking to white women or they’re in jail) to ridiculous (Black women need to harness their “anger” before they can be good partners).

Pure and simple, professional Black women are not getting married because they CHOOSE not to get married.  Seriously, if a woman – any woman – wants to get married (or “get a man” as ABC puts it), she simply has to settle for someone.  There are enough saggy-pantsed man-boys on the street corners for every Black woman IF she wanted one.  Newsflash:  She doesn’t want one.  There are plenty of Hector Penates and Jon Gosselins to be had.  She doesn’t want those, either.  And if she wanted to be someone’s baby momma, well, P. Diddy and Lil Wayne always have room in their harems.  

The fact is, instead of beating up on Black women for making the valid choice of not getting married, they should be applauded for taking control of their lives.  Every professional Black woman I know leads a full life.  They take multiple vacations every year, own their own homes and cars; and when they need male “companionship,” they get it.  Black women are not “on the shelf,” they are living their lives on their terms.  Why is there suddenly something wrong with that?  

And why aren’t White people being studied?  Someone please tell me why old White men keep marrying much younger women, only to get cuckolded (I’m looking at you, Larry King and Hugh Heffner)?  Can a study be done on how a White wife doesn’t know her husband is cheating until the 13^th mistress or hooker pops up out of the woodwork (yes, that would be you, Elin, Sandra and Mrs. Spitzer)?

From what I see, professional Black women may be making a good choice – you don't see professional Black women being Tiger Woodsed or Jesse Jamesed, do you?

Personal Accountability

I went shopping for jeans the other day.  The only size that fit was a 10.  I stopped for a moment; I did not want to buy jeans in that size.

Now, a size 10 is nothing to run away from.  No one could say that a woman who wears a size 10 is morbidly obese or even seriously overweight.  But there I was, terrified of buying those size 10 jeans.  In a frightening flash-forward, I could see myself buying size 12 next, size 14 and so on.  I could see myself becoming the Honduran Kirstie Alley.

My struggle with my weight began only 3 years ago.  I was not a chubby child -- to the contrary, I was often underweight.  I had to eat constantly to maintain a decent weight.  This went on into my teenage years and then into my twenties.  Everyone said that my metabolism would come to a crawl when I hit thirty, but it didn't.  In fact, when I was 30, I went on a vacation with Big Bren and I was so annoyed because the smallest shorts I could find at the Gap for the trip were a size 4 and they were too big.

The prognostications continued -- I wouldn't be able to lose the weight when I had Brendan.  I hated to disappoint the Negative Nellies, but two weeks after I gave birth, I pulled on my size 4 jeans and zipped it up -- with a few inches to spare.

Then about 3 years ago, the prophesies proved true; I began to pack on the pounds.  So what happened?

For the past three years, I've made every excuse:  everyone my age is this size; everyone in my family is fat, it was a miracle I managed to stay so thin for so long; I have no time to exercise; the foods I eat are not that fattening; etc, etc.

The fact is that I stopped doing all the things that were keeping me thin.  I stopped walking.  I stopped dancing.  I stopped going to the gym.  I stopped noticing when I was full and ate until my plate was empty.  And I eat when I am tired.  I eat when I am depressed.  I eat when I am bored.  I eat when I need to fill in the time.  I eat when I am stressed.  I eat when I am relaxed.  I eat, I eat, I eat.

After deciding that I had to do something about my weight, I hopped on the scale and gasped at the number:  158 lbs.

And that is when it hit me.  That is why I was so reluctant to buy those size 10 jeans.  At my last weigh in before I gave birth to Brendan, I weighed 159 pounds.  And at my baby shower -- when I was 8 months pregnant -- I wore a pair of size 10 jeans from the Gap.  Not maternity jeans; regular size 10 jeans.  I was now wearing the same size jeans that I wore when I was practically in labor.

Talk about a wake-up call.

Last Tuesday, I went to Weight Watchers for the first time.  I have often called out others for their delusions.  Well, today is my day for personal accountability.

Who are they fooling?

From AOL:

If you're trying to sell me a bathing suit that supposedly hides figure "flaws," please don't insult my intelligence by having a model who probably weighs 95 pounds soaking wet model the darned thing.  Give me a real woman, so I can see what the suit actually does.  Geez.