Guest Blogger – By – Katrell Castain

Those of you who have been following me on Facebook, know that I have under gone surgery to remove the pins that were placed in my ankle from a previous injury a few years back. Well that has caused me to spend a lot of time, at home in the bed in front of my laptop. Also in the mist of going through surgery me and my long term , long distance love affair came to an end. Leaving me unhappily single. Needless to say, my summer hasn’t been the best. I’ve had a lot of time to just sit and think about things, and do some reflecting; and I’ve concluded that…..I’ve got issues and today is just one of those days where I’m not in the mood!

Today’s Guest Blogger is my very BEST friend Katrell ………Hope you enjoy!

“Who’s your White girl crush?”

I was sitting at the table across from this guy I just recently started dating.

I don’t know why women ask men these dumb questions. It’s a setup for an argument. Maybe I just didn’t have anything else to talk to him about.

“Easy. Scarlett Johansson.”

Okay. I get that. Beautiful face. Curvy body. I think she’s gorgeous, too.

“Black girl?”

“Best all around?” He likes to answer questions with questions.

“No, break it down. Like if you were building the perfect woman.”

Best face: Beyonce.

Best arms: Jada Pinkett or Angela Bassett.

Best booty: Beyonce or Tracee Ellis Ross.

Best boobies: Keyshia Cole

“Legs?” I ask, dipping a fry in honey mustard sauce.

“Ooooh. I dunno.” he takes a moment to ponder.

“Not Bey?” I offer. Chick’s legs are amazing. Wide and firm. Mine are wider, but the general shape is the same.

He smushes up his face. “Uh-uh. She doesn’t have legs. She has ham hocks.”

Pause. Ham hocks? Really?

“Tina Turner.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. “What?”

“Best legs. I’m going with Tina.”

“Oh.”

He looks at me curiously. “What’s wrong?”

I’m fixating. Ham hocks? I don’t know why this bothers me. I don’t have a face like Bey, arms like Jada or Angela, and nothing close to a donk like Tracee. His liking what those ladies work with doesn’t bother me a bit. Maybe it’s because my legs have always been my physical “selling” point, and if he thinks Bey has “ham hocks,” how in the hell could he have ever been interested in my dark meat?

“What, Ariel?” He sounds concerned.

“Nothing.” I’m pouting. Pause. This is stupid. What am I upset over? Really? I perk up to keep the peace.

“Best all around?”

“Kerry Washington. She’s just sexy…..”

I get that, too. Kerry’s mouth does this unique thing when she talks. Some teeth-lip-mouth thing. There’s a good-girl quality, but she might also be bad for a man. That, and her booty sat on twenty-twos in the Last King of Scotland and I Think I Love My Wife.

Now he’s making a face. He’s thinking.

“What?” I ask.

“No, no. Not Kerry,” he says, all animated. “You know who’s perfect? Like dream-woman perfect?” He doesn’t wait for my response. “Nia Long,” he blurts.

What? She’s a beautiful woman, but she’s a stick. A beautiful stick! What is he doing sitting across the table from me? I am not a stick. I’m more like a log – not a huge log, but – okay, maybe that’s a bad analogy. If she’s an appetizer, I’m an entree. I happily eat entrees, and I am what soul singer Bilal Oliver called “something to hold on to.” And this guy, likes and appetizer? I will never be an appetizer. I don’t want to be an appetizer! I like being a meal! Although, admittedly, I’ve been faithfully running four miles a day for the last couple of weeks in hopes of becoming a healthier, leaner meal.

I realize I’m thinking crazy, but I’m too far gone to stop myself.

“I am a thick chick!” I declare loudly and righteously on behalf of all sizes eight and up worldwide. If there was a soapbox present, I would have stood on it purely for effect. “And I eat! And I’m never gonna be a two! Or a four! And my thigh is wide and strong. And I like it that way! So if you want a stick with little legs, you’ll have to go fine one, because I’m not starving for anyone!” I would pound my chest proudly if I didn’t have breasts in the way.

He blinks at me. Once. Twice. Three times. “What the hell was that?” he blurts back at me.

Not the answer I was expecting.

He waves a hand all over the place in front of his face like Tony Yayo. “That! What was that?” he bellows, referring to my wild outburst. He goes in before I can answer. “I didn’t ask you to lose weight or be a-a-stick!” His voice goes up on the noun. “I know you’re not skinny. I can see! If I wanted a stick, I’d be sitting across from a stick. I’m sitting across from you, you know? And it’s not the first time this week. If I didn’t like what I see, I wouldn’t keep seeing it!”

I feel like an idiot. But old habits die hard. I’m not taking the full blame for this one. “So how can skinny women with skinny legs be your ideal?” I squeak. I’m so irrational I don’t even have a big-girl bass in my voice.

“Really, Ri? Really?” He sighs like an overspent parent with a willful toddler.

I should have kept my mouth shut. He is soooo through with me right now. “Oh, just ——” I begin, finally trying to keep this from escalating, but he cuts me off.

“I’m a man. I like women,” he says plainly. “Skinny ones, thick ones, tall, short, dark, light, whatever……it’s that simple.”

I feel like an ass. Not an asshole. The whole ass. But he’s not done. “You need to deal with your issues about yourself. Don’t take it out on me,” he says.

Touche.

I apologize for flipping out; he waves it off and accepts. We move on to another subject and pass the remainder of our outing in compatible conversation.

I go home, think on my crazy. Whenever I date the same person for more than ninety days, the interaction brings out all of my baggage. Some men are happy to carry it. Others not so much. either way, I like my issues buried in the back of the closet where they belong. But if I don’t start unpacking and unloading, I’m screwed.

So are you.

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