Spring-sual Healing
Hot Girl Summer is loading but we gotta get through the spring.
By now, we all know what happened: Klay Thompson showed his natural beige ass and had the complete nerve, audacity, gall, and gumption to cheat on Megan Thee Stallion. The tomfoolery. The conflama. The travesty. To look like a hairy thumb and think you somehow even deserved the second glance, let alone, the undivided attention of an earthbound goddess like Meg is beyond comprehension. Inconceivable, bitch. Unimaginable.
Now we, the Combined Federation of Sistahood have to witness Chief Baby Sista Meg go through grief yet again, this time coated in the heartbreak of having been done dirty by someone not fit to tie her shoelace. And the talk is that his cornball ass dude is fool enough to have kept a diary about it. A diary. He’s either a 13-year-old girl or Michael Scott.
Photo by Rosa Rafael on Unsplash
What Meg knows is what all women who love men know or soon discover: When things go awry, the transferred shame will be ours. It doesn’t matter why the relationship severed. We are asked what we did to push him away or why wouldn’t we keep the only man willing to be seen with us? A woman as radiantly beautiful, talented, and successful as Megan Thee Stallion is being questioned in the aftermath of hurt done to her. People are noting that Klay is worth more money than she is as if that is reason enough to allow him to trample on her feelings. The funny thing is (in the way that nothing is funny about it at all), if Meg did stay because of his money, those same folks would be ready to flip tables like Teresa Guidice and call her all kinds of prostitution whores.
Look, it’s always been hard out there, as least as long as I’ve been doing this love thing. I’m not sure there’s anyone who would think of dating as a cakewalk. But in almost 35 years of loving menfolk romantically, I’ve seen things deteriorate. I know we can’t blame everything on social media, and I don’t want to be the old bitch in the room yet, but we were not meant to know this much about each other. We were not meant to have this much access to what should be inside thoughts and in-group stupidity. We opine over “the male loneliness epidemic”, women yearn for yearners and choose the bear. We chicks seem to have all lost our best eaters, and become Faerie Fuckers, because at least they usually know where our clit is (between the pages of our favorite novel) and being 413 years old hasn’t affected their ability to keep it up.
What good news is there to give my 22-year-old who’s trying to take her first real steps into the romantic arena? Unprecedented access? I usually have words of wisdom or at least words of wittiness but right now, all I can think is “Protect your neck” and “Mind the gap”. Neither of which exactly make sense, but neither does the playing field.
Don’t be caught out there letting a Handsome Squidward face ass dude too close, Daughter. Look how they get.
So, now what? Is there a message in all this?
Isn’t there always?
I’m sure there is this time, too, but I’m too weary to suss it out.
Okay, no, I’m not. Like I said when I first found out about the Meg situation, I think it’s past time that we stop telling women to keep our joys and our hopes to ourselves. That has never benefited anyone but a cheating ass dude. Because we’re afraid of public humiliation, we tamp down anything looking too much like happy so if it all goes left, there’s no “I told you so”s or folks taking pleasure in our pain. But baby, allow me to speak from a position of one who knows intimately: The pain isn’t any less if you tried to keep your mouth shut. A man who was going to play in your face and waste your time will anyway. You aren’t the loser for loving. If the shame is going to be public, let’s place it ever so gently in the lap of the one who should carry it.
Let’s treat betrayal and heartbreak like what it is - a communicable disease that we all catch from time to time. Ain’t no shame in being sick in front of the world. Invite your virtual girlies over for chicken noodle soup, rage-filled playlists, and movies that make you cry. Heal in public, with the support of those who know how it feels.
I got you, boo. Spend the spring crying into your pillow if you must, then kick the door open this summer and run them muthafuckas ragged.
Here’s the first song for your playlist:
In loving solidarity and rage, T.