I hate everything about school right now. And I do mean EVERYTHING. I have spent the last almost 2 weeks holed up in the building most of my classes are in on campus working until all hours of the night… on makeup. MAKEUP of all fuckin’ things. You have no idea how much I wish I was kidding you.
Long story short after DAYS at a time being in this building I LOATHE, being generally tired, burned out and sleep deprived, my patience for all things makeup and/or people that are not the holy trinity in my life (to be explained later), I am beyond the normal limits of irritability. Argh. So here it is, 1am, I’m in this same building and I’ve been here for HOURS. I’m exhausted. I’m tired of school. I’m completely burned out and when I try to explain this to people who are currently not matriculating at the mecca of black education, they call me lazy. Booooo!! Hisssssssss!! If it weren’t for the fact that I am this close to finishing and feel like I need something to show for suffering these last 4 years other than gray hair and war wounds, I’d say fuck it, drop out, move to Seattle with my sister and then to LA as planned. Because the fact of the matter is, I don’t NEED this shit.
But I digress. As stirring as I’m sure that paragraph must have been for you, it is not the point of this post. It is the point of my next post entitled “Why I Keyed my Professor’s Car then Tied Him to the Tailpipe and Drug him 10 Miles Down Georgia Avenue.” The point of this post is what all of that madness will drive you to.
I called him.
Please stop smiling and clapping, ladies.
According to the holy trinity of control in my life (Childhood Bestie, Sister and S) I shoulda called Mr. Wonderful pretty much immediately following our impromptu date earlier this week. I, in my infinite amount of stubbornness, SWORE I would not. And I hadn’t. At all. Until college totally stepped in. At the point where I just couldn’t take it anymore and most were dealing with crisis of their own I needed to vent. And BAD. That plus the fact that, well, I wanted to talk to him. So I called…
… And then I hung up when he answered.
I spent the next .47 seconds shaking my head at my own immaturity until he calls me right back. I pick up the phone and try to say hello as though nothing is wrong and he says, “What are you? 12 or 21?”
I HATE him by the way. I, of course, laugh because #1 I am being completely ridiculous because I am, in fact, 21 and not 12 and because #2 it sounds like something I would say. Plus, I just really needed a laugh. A few minutes into the conversation he tells me I sound really tired and somehow out tumbles the entire sorted story of this bullshit class which has become my life. I end it with, “And that’s why I need a drink.”
And we laugh. Because, well I’m funny, especially when I’m in full on charming flirty mode as I am with this man. We talk for awhile longer, and by talk I mean I vent and he laughs at me. When I tell him how many classes I’m taking (8 to the normal college student’s 3 or 4) he gasps.
“How the hell are you alive?!” he asks me.
Alive? Is that what I’ve been?
We go on, me bitching, him laughing, for awhile. Then he says, “Where exactly on campus is this building where they let you stay there all night?” I explain to him that it is in fact the mouth to hell located at the very top of the campus therefore spewing its evilness down the steps and onto the yard. After a few more minutes he breaks up. Which I don’t understand because isn’t Verizon the “can you hear me now? Good!” company that can get signals even in the womb? Amidst my hellos and right before I hang up, someone places coffee in front of me. And not just any coffee, Starbucks coffee, better known as crack in a cup. I look up and there’s Mr. Wonderful. He cracks me that wonderfully straight beautiful smile and looks down at me.
“I figured,” he says, “that this would do you more good than a lemon drop right now.”
I hate him so much.
He is GOOD. A worthy adversary. Just to spite him and to fight this blooming feeling in my stomach (damn butterflies) I say snidely, “I bet you didn’t even get it right.”
I sip it.
Its a grande White Chocolate Mocha, shots of vanilla, with whip. Jesus who gets that right? The strength of the coffee even with the vanilla shots tell me he went to my favorite Starbucks. I question this.
“Yes, I went to your favorite one. You said their coffee was strongest.”
I will of course now have to kill him.
He makes me take a break from brooding and we walk around campus. He’s doing most of the talking as I am still pretty much in shock that he came all the way to my campus to bring me coffee before I cracked. I sip the liquid crack (TELL me they don’t put some kinda narcotic in the coffee!!! I DARE you!!) and I feel warm from the inside. It takes me a few laps to realize it’s not the coffee. It’s him. We talk, slow and easy, with the ease of people who’ve known each other for years. Then he says the words every girl is dying to hear…
“I’m a diehard Cowboys fan.”
Well, maybe not every girl, just me. I mean but COME ON. Did God MAKE this man especially for me?!? He’d be better if he were a Falcons fan, but in this area, I’ll take what I can get.
See, I love football. I used to just like it, but ever since I got it explained to me even more a few months back, I now LOVE it. I’m not one of those girls who pretends to like sports to seem attractive, I genuinely love them. I’m a “shut up the game is on” kinda gal. The only game I love more is basketball. I ask him a couple NBA questions to see if he’s full of bullshit hot takes.
I just. Can’t. Take. It.
We talk more basketball, and we both agree that we’re looking forward to the Heat playing the Lakers on Christmas Day more than we are spending time with our families. It’s like a match made in NBA heaven.
We walk and talk more and somehow an hour has passed. I tell him I should get back, and he agrees. Then he tells me, “Me and and some of my boys and some of their girls are getting together to watch the games tomorrow. They’re all Washington fans, and I could use some backup. Wanna be my date?”
I smile on the inside briefly. And just for a second. And then I’m cold again. I could explain why but you wouldn’t get it and you wouldn’t care because its so small, so minuscule that it shouldn’t matter but its important to me.
See… Cowboys/Redskins games are sacred to me… and someone else.
He sees my hesitation. “Look I’m not trying to pressure you. But you have to let go at some point.”
And he’s right.
I don’t give him an answer but I’m considering it. Maybe. We’ll see. I dunno. I’m not sure. Because of the team thing. Because I don’t know if I’m ready to meet his friends. Because surrender is a hard concept for me to fathom right now because even partial surrender has gotten me heartbroken. But… hmm… Who knows?
Somewhere in this train of thoughts he kisses me on my cheek and it catches me off guard so much that my breath catches. He lingers a split second longer than he should, and before I know what I’m doing, I kiss him. We pull away, breathless, and after a beat of silence he says, “I didn’t mean-” I shush him.
“Sometimes you have to surrender.”
Then I walk inside.