Posts Tagged ‘overweight’
Is it OK to Loan Your Boyfriend Money?
I’m sure a plethora of scenarios are running through your head in which you are probably trying to justify when it’s ok to loan money to your man. Of course there are those who are actually calculating the hundreds if not thousands of dollars they’ve already lost to the “I-can-do-bad-all-by-myself” college fund. Where was Tyler Perry when you needed him? Hopefully you’re not THAT girl but I’m 98% sure you know a girl who fits this description. Let’s face it, we live in Los Angeles, home of the designer $32 Kobe beef burger, there’s no such thing as petty cash in this town. Even if you are the breadwinner in a relationship, a personal line of credit extended from your checking account to your man is not a great idea. In fact, ESPECIALLY when you are the breadwinner in the relationship, loaning your man money is not a great idea. I’m not saying that we (women) should not support our significant others in a time of need. What I am saying is that it’s tricky.
Now, there’s nothing I love more than contributing in a relationship. If I have the means to contribute and make a good vacation GREAT, then damn it I want a personal concierge, a beach view and bottomless dirty martinis throughout my stay. There’s NOTHING wrong with putting your finances together to purchase something awesome whether it be a great vacation or a great single family home. There’s NOTHING wrong with buying your man a nice and/or expensive birthday present. Financial collaboration between two people who have it like that is sexy. However, the moment you start reaching into your pockets to help support a boyfriend out of necessity, you might as well start tossing out your sex drive like spare change.
The difference is this: When we have a man in our life who spoils us and provides without being asked to, we naturally want to reciprocate and let him know that he’s appreciated. BUT, when we have a man in our life that is struggling and HIS finances become a drain on YOUR finances, we begin to raise a Kardashian eyebrow. After all, if a man can’t provide for himself how will he be able to handle the rest of the grown up things in life?
Truthfully it’s not even about the loan. It’s about the notion that you have now become the man in the relationship. You now have power that you didn’t ask for in lieu of the security that most women crave. Plus, when your inner loan shark begins to emerge and you see him buying Play Station games instead of making good on his debt, you start to realize that you’ve just adopted a grown man.
Drunken Hot Mess…
Public Service Announcement: Drunken hot mess stops being cute after age 25. Translation, after 25 it is no longer acceptable to hurl in public or show off your latest VS collection boy shorts via peep show. After age 25 you’re supposed to keep your composure and hug the porcelain Jesus in the privacy of your own home (like the ever-so-sophisticated 30 plus crowd does). However, as with everything else in life, there are outliers. Sometimes the wrong mix of cheap vodka and cream cheese French toast create the perfect storm during a Halloween party and you find yourself huddled in the bathtub of some strangers’ mansion slurring strange references to turkey patty melts from Mel’s Diner (but I digress).
In music videos everyone pops bottles all night long, dancing to hooks that often rhyme with Grey Goose, Patron, and Moet. Therefore, it’s entirely understandable for women (and their male counterparts) to completely lose their ish when they happen to be holding a shot and that one song comes on talking about “blame on it the alcohol.” Not that a song should ever be the catalyst for inebriated tomfoolery, but I do see the logic (and lack thereof). Having said that, below are some guidelines to help gauge when you may be approaching your potential for public embarrassment.
1. The bouncer starts looking cute: Yes he’s tall, buff and in a suit, however, chances are he’s worn that same suit every night to work for the last 7-10 days. He’s sweated in it, spilled after-hours club food on it, and ironed out the wrinkles from last night’s bus ride home. To be on the safe side, disregard anyone wearing all black until you get home.
2. The Guy whose advances you ignored for the last 2 hours starts looking cute: Yes, compliments are wonderful. BUT, when the guy who almost got slapped for landing a cheap feel on your lady lumps starts becoming charming to you, it’s clearly time for an intervention. His breath didn’t get any cleaner, he’s holding the same cup of 7up over ice that he had when you got there and he’s still wearing the fake Fila/Prada sneaks. IT’S TIME TO GO!
3. All of your sentences begin and end in slobber: Even though it is quite an impressive feat to sing the entire Destiny’s Child catalog entirely in spit while doing the Dougie backwards at 3am on a Sunday, some talents are better left unseen. Let the world peel back that layer upon request (please).
Remember! Friends don’t let friends drive drunk, drunk dial, or dance drunk in stilettos. Lastly, if your friend does not want to end the party (and we all have a friend that never wants to end the party), as a last resort, take them to a karaoke bar, where every drunk has their day and promptly passes out after a long-winded Celine Dion bender.
Till Death Do Us Part: Not as long as it used to be…
The average man in LA confronts two primary fears when he contemplates the long road down the altar of commitment. The first is the concept of accomplishment. He asks himself questions. Am I financially stable? Have I traveled the world, seen all it has to offer? Am I man enough to be someone’s husband/provider/father? And, most importantly, have I sampled enough women (sexually)? The latter is highly subjective and contingent upon the border of one’s imagination/fantasy world.
The second primary fear is that of time. A lot happens over the span of several years with respect to our values, outlook on life and overall preferences (both intellectually and aesthetically). But, what men (and women alike) think about most is: Can I deal with this person till death do us part?
Let us examine this further, shall we? The average man in Los Angeles gets married at around age 35 (give or take a couple years). While the bureau of statistics would have us believe that LA men marry at a median age of 28, I strongly beg to differ. It would seem that it is during this time that most men, and women alike, are settled within their respective careers or well on their way to it. They find a suitable host with whom they can share their hopes, dreams, vacations, and future offspring. But, simple mathematics determines that there really isn’t much time to actually accomplish this. Ideally, a married couple would seek to enjoy the fertile years of their marriage, also known as the “honeymoon phase,” usually spent traveling and actually enjoying the fruits of their union (both fiscally and emotionally).
So, how much time do we carve out in order to solidify our identity as a couple? How much time do we set aside to raise a family? Speaking as a 30+ year old, I often wonder about that myself. Will I get to celebrate a 50-year anniversary? Have the days of such traditions been reduced to the fading residual folklore of our grandparents?
This is not necessarily a bad thing but realistically speaking, the energy of a 40 year-old is not that of a 30 year-old. And, when we begin our families at roughly this age, how much time do we have to actually be in the lives of our children? My mom had me at age 22. She will be around when I’m well into my 50’s (God willing). But, I can’t necessarily say the same thing about myself.
So here it is, sorry to be the bearer of bad news. 30 is NOT the new 20, and 40 is NOT the new 30. This is merely a slogan created by Viagra and all of its constituents to propagate one of the most antiquated myths of our lifetime, The Fountain of Youth.
Friend Politics 101
Traci is my wingman. We hang out all the time. But, lately I’d been keeping her out more nights than she typically tolerated. So, when I called her to let her know my boy was throwing a “private party” for Lebron James at the W Hotel in Westwood, Traci wasn’t having it. “Girl we went out Friday, Saturday and Tuesday, I’ve literally exhausted every rendition of my cutest outfits, and I haven’t worked out in like three days because it takes me two hours to blow dry, curl, and style my hair, give it rest mama!” Who me? Not a chance, not tonight! Didn’t she know that there were WINNERS at the W Hotel in Westwood? I mean, what do you think the W stands for? WINNERS of course!!
With Traci out of commission there were a few things to consider. Friend Politics 101: I am only as fly as my crew. There’s no sense in me getting cute and wasting my new YSL pumps if there’s a duck in my squad (yes a duck, quack…quack). What I mean is… if I show up to an exclusive event with two other girls and one of them happens to be…shall we say… “challenged” in certain areas, then I’m probably not getting in.
Now I know what you’re thinking, that’s some real shallow LA shit right? Right! Of course it’s shallow, but it’s also the truth ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to my world! I didn’t make the rules, don’t shoot the messenger. Los Angeles social scene etiquette dictates that if I walk into a line looking fantastic and I throw up my perfectly manicured fingers motioning that there are two us, right away the bouncer notices me, walks over and says “who you with?” If I’m with a girl that looks like a hot, steamy, Avatar-mess, I am most likely not getting into the damn event (or Berry’s Pizza Cafe for that matter). And guess what folks? I didn’t come out for all this! I did not get all dressed up only to have to walk the hall of shame and complain about it later at Mel’s Diner (where every tranny is welcome). So, I devised a plan of attack.
I realize you may be asking yourself, “What constitutes a fat girl? Am I a fat girl?” To which I answer, if you have to ask….
You see, one night, I walked into the SLS Hotel bar with my dear friend Natalie. Natalie is the flyest obese person you ever met. I mean, she is gorgeous, and if we lived in Nebraska she’d be the Belle of the ball. But we DON’T live in Nebraska. We live in LA, home of the size 2 and the super-model diet (only 1 finger required). Anyway, Natalie looked absolutely stunning in her knock-off DVF, Lane Bryant wrap dress circa 2009, yunno, the navy, exaggerated cheetah print. As we entered the bar we overheard two guys loudly whispering as we walked by, “Yo man, I can’t even front on Mrs. Piggy-Beyonce over there, I’d F – her all day long.” Paralyzed by my inability to calculate whether or not Natalie been complemented or insulted, I did what I do best and gave them my signature snub nose indicating that, while we did overhear the 12 year-old banter, it’s impossible to be insulted by anyone wearing Air-Force One’s to the SLS. I sure told them, or so I thought, until I glanced over at Nat who looked as though the wind had been knocked out of her.
I immediately ordered two Grey Goose and Seven-Up’s for the table given that the night had already gotten off to a rocky start. However, to no avail, Natalie wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Now all Natalie wanted to talk about was her thyroid problem. And, now Natalie didn’t want to hit up Industry for dancing later, like we’d originally planned, because she had to get to work early in the morning. I felt bad for Natalie, I really did, because one ridiculous comment ruined our entire evening and I could not make it better no matter how hard I tried.
I began to get angry with her but I didn’t let on to it. I couldn’t let her see me be frustrated with her weight problem (even though I truly was) because I couldn’t live with her feeling any worse than she already did. I wanted to tell her that if she didn’t like her reality she needed to change it. I wanted to tell her that her thyroid had nothing to do with the three cheeseburgers she religiously sipped down during her lunch hour every day. But, instead, I pretended to be interested in her latest shoe purchase and her pretend boyfriend who was always out of town and whom none of us had ever met because that’s what friends do.