Whatever else I do in life, I’m always learning to be more comfortable in my own skin. Unapologetically comfortable in my own skin such that on the day when I’m too Black for some people and on the next day not Black enough, I’m OK on both days. 

In an ironic twist, all Black women are the perfect degree of Blackness to be put in the “Angry Black Woman” box. All you have to do is react indignantly to being disrespected and BOOM, you’re in! And trust me, if you’re a Black woman, disrespect is right around the corner. If it’s not touching your hair without your permission because they find it beautiful, then it’s saying you’re not beautiful based on Eurocentric standards; to not being heard when in professional or academic settings, to being praised for your articulation when they actually do hear you even though you’re educated; to being regarded as a hardworking mule because you’re Black and female, to being paid less for doing the same job and having the same credentials because you’re Black and female; to working twice as hard just to get half as far, to being dismissed as an opinionated know-it-all. No matter what we do, there’s always an insulting filter to view us through. 

Oh, and have you heard? The brown paper bag test is back! Except this time, you’re unacceptable if you’re lighterthan a brown paper bag. Now, they may not literally reference a brown paper bag, but they’ll still sneak it in when talking about whether politicians like Kamala Harris or Cory Booker are Black enough. And before you say, “But they’re not talking about skin color. They’re talking about how much privilege those politicians have.” Just let me say this: when Obama first ran for president, the opposition consistently showed pictures of him with his skin darker than he was in reality.  Now, Black people may say “the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice,” but unfortunately, that’s not a national sentiment felt across all demographics. 

But let’s return to privilege and the ancient battle between the haves and the have nots. Even if you’re the most peace-loving individual, you’re still a participant in the battle whether you want to be or not. If you’re a successful Black person, there are some demographics that absolutely hate you. And you don’t have to be Oprah or Obama successful to trigger the “uppity negro” reaction. Or the “you’re one of the White Black people” reaction. Just be perceived as having more success than the demographic that hates you believes you should have. 

What do you know about the struggles of real Black people? You were raised middle class, in the suburbs, and your nerdy, bougie ass has a Master’s degree. You don’t know the latest Black dances, Black slang and you’re bad at sports. (Yes, I’m talking about myself here.) 

From the very first time I was given the insulting compliment of not talking like a Black person as a freshman in college, I’ve been aware of the battle. I didn’t know what it was at the time. Like any complex situation, the boundaries are fluid. Like an ameba. You never know an ameba’s exact shape because it’s always moving. Or if you know its exact shape because you took a picture of it, then you don’t know where it is at the moment. Oh yes, the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle can be used in more situations than electrons. 

So, when I remember the shape of a situation, it’s frozen there in the past like a picture in a memory book. When I speak of it, it’s from that snapshot, but in reality, that situation has moved along and undergone many shape shifts. And when I recollect to speak my truth, for which things shall I apologize?

Where do I draw the line? The line is as fluid as an ameba’s ectoplasm. In these transformative times where everyone is checking everyone else’s privilege, I can’t even look to political leaders as a guide. 

My gut-check tells me this: I won’t apologize for authenticity. If shown a better way to say or do something, then I’ll adjust, but an apology isn’t the end of the conversation if it’s not the end of the conflict. I’m at the point in my life, that I value conflict resolution more than any crowd-pleasing, Band-Aid apology. Nor will I offer one. And these days people demand apologies not for reconciliations or empathy, but to destroy the person who’s being asked to apologize as if every error or lack of judgment or difference of opinion can be equaled to committing a crime.

For criminal wrongdoing, apply the consequences of the law. For all other things, it’s negotiable, but often times, the demanded apology is a manipulation tactic. I should apologize for speaking too loudly or harshly or at all. Or I should apologize for not having the demeanor of the preconceived, “appropriately” Black woman for whichever person who’s judging me at the moment. 

I’ve got another idea: I’m going to start thanking people for the opportunity to help them manage their expectations when it comes to interacting with me. Of course, I won’t use those exact words, but that’s going to be my new mindset because I for damn sure won’t be apologizing!  (You’re welcome.)

Nearly ten years ago when I moved to the Music Capital of the World, I thought I was allergic to beestings and had no problem with pollen. I’ve learned some things since then.

There’s this seasonal Welcome to Austin condition known as Cedar Fever that makes newbies feel as if they’ve come down with the flu. As trial and error would have it, cough drops relieved my itchy throat and sneezing, a neti pot cleared my sinuses and Bikram yoga kept most seasonal allergy symptoms in check–with a host of other wonderful benefits.

Yet, keeping the flora and fauna that resides within the human body in balance is as challenging as maintaining world peace. You never know when something’s brewing until your intel briefs you. In my case, it was ear wax.

I hadn’t experienced a good ear wax flood in years. When I say “flood,” I don’t mean that anything was leaking out, but as I slept the wax buildup plugged my ears, making me feel as if I was underwater. Combined with my heartbeat, I felt as if I could hear waves underwater.

A few days later, I smelled the stench in the water flowing through the pipes in my apartment. The next day, I learned the stench was caused by decomposing zebra mussels that had invaded the water supply. Yet I didn’t realize that those dead zebra mussels had thrown off my ear wax.

I did my usual hydrogen peroxide in the ear to break up the wax. That solution worked for a few days.

Then, women at yoga suggested I use garlic oil drops. One even suggested using my neti pot, which I didn’t think of because I focused on ear wax rather than inner ear pressure. The neti pot helped relieve the pressure from the other side, but only temporarily.

As I battled with keeping my right ear open, the water treatment facility used charcoal to remedy the dead zebra mussels stank. Periodically, my right ear would just pop open on its own, only to re-close just as inexplicably.

Then, it would pop open in the morning and only close as I slept. At that point, I stopped messing with it. After all, I didn’t really need to hear while I slept. No harm, no foul.

Finally, the problem cleared up altogether. That’s when I noticed that the water hadn’t stunk in a few days. Eureka! Those damn zebra mussels had had one last hurrah in death.

I’m not allergic to shellfish (yet!) , but I’m a firm believer of drinking tap water since it’s potable. However, the small fluctuation in water quality was enough to cause an immune response as my body knew it didn’t need the essence of zebra mussels.

In the meantime, I’m going to keep doing the things that promote body peace: daily exercise, fresh food, 8 hours of sleep and a glass of red wine!

I first noticed the smell in the bathroom. Having just flushed minutes ago, I lifted the lid. Nope, nothing there but a damn near sparkling clean toilet bowl.

Then I refilled my drinking glass with tap water and smelled it again. I brought the glass to my nose and there it was. I dumped out the water, got a new glass and this time filled it with bottled water from the refrigerator, which I had from the last time we couldn’t drink the water since flooding had overwhelmed the city’s water facility.

Even then, I started boiling water and storing it into other containers, but I had to start off with bottled water as a quick-fix until I had my stash of potable water saved up.

Since I had been a Peace Corps Volunteer and had lived and traveled around developing countries, I had a love/hate relationship with bottled water. If I lived in a place where I couldn’t drink the tap water, then I either used a filter, or filtered and boiled the water, or bought the largest container of bottled water I could.

I’d never smelled such a stench emanating from water before; so I immediately put the blame on the construction site adjacent to my apartment complex. Seems as if they’d been working on it for many years, but in truth, it may be closer to two.

The next time I watched the news, the mystery had been solved: zebra mussels had infiltrated the water supply for central Austin and were decomposing. Although the news anchor stated that the officials declared the water safe to drink despite the smell, there wasn’t any clip of an official turning on a faucet and taking a sip of it. Hence, I continued drinking bottled water if I wasn’t going to boil it first.

Fortunately, whatever efforts were made to remove the stench successfully reached my water supply first. Local TV anchors were still talking about the stinky water days after mine had returned to its usual odorless state.

Some may wonder why the fluctuations in water quality don’t cause me to stop drinking tap water altogether. Here’s why I continue to do so: within limits, I want my body to deal with whatever is in this environment, so I’m not always sick in the long run.

Remember the end of Battle of the Wits scene in the Princess Bride where Westley admitted to building up an immunity to poison, which he’d put in both glasses? Within limits, it’s best to build up an immunity to whatever poisons there are around here. Otherwise, my body’s going to react violently every time there’s a shift in the wind.

So, if I’m a straight, single woman who has her own money, doesn’t want children, but wants male companionship, why do men always fuck that up? I’ve already gotten over the fact that most men don’t read as much as I do or juggle as many interesting activities, but ever since I started dating when I was a teenager, most guys have either bored me after a date or two or tried to turn me into their housenigger–you know, that woman you cajole into doing all the drudgery you don’t want to do yourself despite the fact you’re a grown ass man and perfectly capable of doing so? And no, I’m not angry. Just realistic. If I minimize the amount of time I do that shit for myself, I sure in the hell don’t want to waste time doing it for another person. Honestly, if I don’t need a man’s money, not even on a date, then what reasonable expectation does he have that I’ll take care of the menial tasks in his life? None, as far as I’m concerned. Tina Turner was right: What’s love got to do with it? Honestly, I’ve never once thought, “Oh my God, I’m spending way too much time reading books. I wish I had more housework and errands to do!”

Here’s another thing: I firmly believe in not comingling funds. If it’s my birthday, then you can buy me dinner or a drink, but even then, it’s not an obligation because I don’t go out unless I have the money to do so. I also expect the same in a guy, along with him taking care of his other basic responsibilities of being an adult.

In addition to not comingling funds, I’m against comingling body fluids with the notable exception of salvia.  Human salvia. If you’re the guy who lets your pets lick all over your face, forget it. Every woman has her standards.

Since I’ve never wanted children, why should seminal fluid or sperm ever enter my body? It just becomes another thing to clean up and we women already do enough of cleaning up. So don’t be that guy who goes on a date or comes over to hang out without condoms. You’re already not spending money on me cause I don’t need it, so you should have enough for condoms. If you’re that fucking cheap, you aren’t worth fucking. And I know what you guys are thinking, “It’s not the cost, I just don’t like wearing them because it dulls the sensation.” But, you know what’s really dull? Not fucking because you didn’t bring any condoms!   Honestly, it’s less mess and hassle to self-pleasure.

Thanks to Meetup, I don’t have to look for an interesting male companion any more. I join the groups that do interesting things. That’s half the battle. Humans are sociable animals and I can socialize with people who have common interests.

Yet, I still wanted to discover why men fuck up companionship with a woman who doesn’t want his money, baby or wedding ring. I know that any combination of those three things can be wonderful for some, but what I see are three traditional ways to control women.

So, I invited some friends to bar where we discussed these issues with three bartenders. (Yes, I focus grouped this one.)

Before bringing the bartenders into the conversation, we first discussed what we wanted out of men since we were all independent women. Not surprising, at the top of the list, none of us wanted a possessive man. After all, what part of “independent woman” would actually be appealing to a possessive guy? 

We want a man to be part of our life, but not to assert himself as if he’s our ENTIRElife. It’s the difference between being needed and wanted. A needed man is a part of a woman’s survival strategy; a wanted man shares in her happiness. If she’s already surviving pretty well before she meets you, then she wants you as a companion, not some knight in shining armor, or meal ticket or sugar daddy. 

Since companionship can take a lot of forms, the next important thing is for a guy to be upfront about his needs. Even the bartenders confirmed this much. Both the guys were Virgos, but whereas one was the most dreamy-eyed romantic monogamist, the other was polyamorous and they communicated clear expectations. The third bartender, a woman who was also the only single parent among them, considered communication and a non-possessive man to be at the top of her list because it’s just exhausting otherwise. 

We women think seriously about having both the time and energy for a boyfriend. And wouldn’t it be wonderful if sex was never a chore? Which is why I strongly advocate for separate residences. Because when we plan to spend time together, I’ve scheduled the time and energy and naps for that. And then he leaves. That’s just the proper punctuation at the end of a well-written sentence. We can spend some quality time together and some quality time apart.  

Nothing makes the heart grow fonder than not being around you 24-7! Have you ever heard people who don’t live together complaining about needing their own space?

And this should go without saying, but with the rise of digital and surgical enhancements, I’ll say it anyway: to love me is to love my body the way it is. If you’re turned off by my looks, I’m going to be turned off by hearing you complain about it. And I expect the same. There are male friends who I don’t find physically attractive, so I don’t go into that zone. If you feel the need to make major edits to someone’s physique, then don’t pursue that person. 

We also agreed that we wanted a man who was spiritually and emotionally balanced. The guy who’s moral, has integrity and goals in life, but not such a fanatic that he zapped all the joy out of living and emotional vampires need not apply. 

Now, I realize some of you are thinking that I’m too picky or unrealistic or stubborn, but you know what I am? Patient. I believe one day in the not so distant future Mr. Perfect will stroll into my life because he’ll be a made to order boyfriend cyborg. And Jeff Bezos will make that a seamless transaction and delivery!