Do You Understand the Words That Are Coming Out of My Mouth???
The few instances I recall being reprimanded in school occurred because I didn’t know how to control and/or filter what came out of my mouth, or a combination of how my ‘feelings’ made me feel and what came out of my mouth. I remember early on in school I had a sit down with the principal who forbade me from informing my classmates of their illegitimate birth. For some reason my six year old self loved the meanings of words and using them in sentences, as well as sharing with others how such words fit into their six year old worlds. Another instance in middle school I had my first crush on a teacher, Mr. Sears, who was the epitome of a Californian surfer, blond, blue eyed, tall with a weird scent of coffee and what I now know to be that mountain breeze fragrance they put on men’s deodorant. He would often send me to the principal’s office for being rebellious and flipping off at the mouth, I learned early on the more I talked the closer he would get so my attempts at attention came with the extra chores and punishments at home. Many years later in my journey of life, I still haven’t mastered the art of controlling the words that spew from my vocal cords, especially when I get certain feelings or attention from the opposite sex.
As my days are free due to the furlough, I recently hung out with my mom, allowing her to experience the culinary simplicity and magnificence that is Five Guys. My mother is very particular when it comes to eating in an actual restaurant. In order for her to eat in an establishment she requires that they have a cushioned booth. As Five Guys has no booth, only wooden chairs my mother deemed uncomfortable, we had to go. As we approached the car, a handsome gentleman (Lord knows I pray that this man is a gentleman) came my way. He made weird eye gestures at me and questioned if he could join us. We exchanged polite banter, and he entered the restaurant. As he left the restaurant, he stopped by my window, as my mother made me eat in the car, and continued talking. He asked if he could call me, and before I answered I presented a series of questions I present to all potential suitors: Are you married and/or seeing someone, are you working, do you love Jesus. He answered my questions satisfactorily, and I gave him my number. I typically don’t take men’s number, if you call great, if not that’s great too, as obviously you aren’t the one.
As the man I hope to be a gentleman left, my mother looked at me and stated I was intimidating, and my line of questions made me appear as a gold digging sergeant. This isn’t the first time my mom called me intimidating. I recall the last time came at a cousins retirement party when I was more formal than the mistress of ceremony, all in all I think it was my fascinator hat that made her come to that conclusion. However, in this instance, I have no clue why she’d think I was intimidating. Yes, I’m nervous when flirting, and I tend to talk, but my talking has purpose. I wanted to know if I should bother giving this gentleman my number. If he was married, had no job (not working and not wanting to work are two different answers, and each is presented differently, I’ve been there), and had no desire for Jesus, there would be no purpose in us exchanging numbers. I have enough friends, and honestly most men I encounter aren’t interested in being my friend, honestly most men I encounter aren’t interested in putting a ring on it either, hence my continued single status.
So as I write, I question if I’m single because I’m too forward or maybe because I don’t fit comfortably into any one box, regardless of who is establishing the parameters, men or my mother. When I look back over my dating life, I have very few regrets in terms on how situations began or ended, so I’m not inclined to change anything at this point. But on the other hand if I desire marriage and children, maybe something needs to change. My only potential regret would be when I ceased communication with the great guy who called my method for making cheese toast in the bottom of the oven ghetto. Occasionally I wonder where he is, but that can’t be considered a full regret, as it was his fault for not accepting my culinary genius and the best freaking cheese toast known to man. Who doesn’t love the char on the cheese toast made in the broiler? Fingers crossed that the prospective gentleman is a gentleman and I can prove my mama wrong in that I am not intimidating!
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