Yesterday, I decided to be social.
That alone should’ve alerted the universe.
I picked my mama up first—because nothing good happens without maternal approval—and we went on a full-blown mission to find the outfit. Not an outfit. The outfit. Boots with just enough heel to threaten the weak. Accessories loud enough to announce my presence before I spoke. Something that said I came to be seen, not touched.
My mama bought everything. Her very late birthday present to me. LOL. Which means she stood back, squinted her eyes, tilted her head, and said, “Yeah… that’ll do.” Translation: You look expensive.
When I go out, I have to be dressed to impress. That’s not arrogance. That’s armor.
I ordered two drinks—two—and that’s my max. I don’t drink like that, but every now and then a peach-coconut martini with a sugared rim doesn’t hurt. I sip. I observe. I mind my business. I glow quietly.
Naturally, the place got packed. Wall to wall. Shoulder to shoulder. Perfume fighting cologne. Heels stepping on toes. Somebody yelling “AYEEE” for no reason. The DJ sweating like he’s doing brain surgery instead of playing the same five songs everybody already knows.
I’m sitting at my table, minding my grown business, when this girl—let’s call her Keisha-Lynn-Marie—staggers over to the DJ booth.
And when I say staggers, I mean ankles giving up on life.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t ask. She just… lunged. Hands everywhere. Places that require a permission slip. Acting like the DJ was community property.
Now see.
I grabbed her arm—not aggressively, but firmly enough to wake her spirit—and said, “You need to back up.”
She looked at me like I just told her water was wet. Mouth open. Eyes blinking. Confused in every language.
Because apparently, in her mind, what she was doing was completely normal.
It was not.
Her friends rush over talking about, “She’s drunk, she’s drunk.”
And I’m tired.
I am tired of alcohol being used as a hall pass for disrespect. If you know liquor turns you into a liability, don’t drink. Plain and simple. Water exists. Juice exists. Staying home exists.
It’s about respect.
I would never do that. Ever. It’s low class. Whatever happened to mystique? To letting a man wonder? To sitting back and letting curiosity do the work?
Some women throw themselves at men like a clearance rack pork chop. No seasoning. No restraint. Just raw audacity.
And don’t get me wrong—I am sweet. I am polite. I am everybody’s favorite until they aren’t.
But if you cross me?
Baby. It’s a wrap.
I’ve had to activate Diva Mode a few times in my life because some women cannot help themselves. They hover at the DJ booth like it’s a spiritual calling. They pull the DJ out like he’s their cousin. They dance like rent is due at midnight.
It’s honestly one of the reasons I stay home. Because I know myself. I know my temper has a history. I’ve retired from foolishness, yes—but I did not forget the skill set.
My mama says this has been happening since the beginning of time. There are women who don’t want a man—they want your man. She always says, “Trust your man. Watch that woman.” LOL.
I’ve always conducted myself as a lady. That doesn’t mean boring. That means intentional. It means I don’t need to perform for attention.
Some women just don’t get that.
Anyway.
That’s my TED Talk. I’m off my soap box. 🍸
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