30, Single, and an empty Cooler...?

So Lauren (the fine as hell chick I work with) is having a little condo-warming type shindig...I decided to drop by for a lil bit...

As I passed a table of four, thirty-something year old black women, they sized me up carefully; their eyes slowly removing each garment and determining if what was underneath was fit to be touched. The fairest-skinned of the bunch must have administered her test the fastest as she allowed a smile to curl on her lips and she squeezed out a shy, “Hi”. As I smiled back, the corner of my eye caught the oldest at the table biting her lip as she whispered “I’m guessin 28, 29”. The dark-skinned woman to her right chimed in, “Girl, you see his cute lil ass? He ain’t no older than 26”. I strolled on as their voices began to merge with the low hum of conversation in the spacious condo.
Being 30 and single is like going to a party and being the last one to the cooler. All the fancy wine coolers are gone: there’s no more Pepsi, Coke, Sprite, or Dr. Pepper…even the orange soda is gone. What you’re left with is some off-brand cola, a Corona bottle, and a couple of cans of ginger ale to choose from.
At 30 you reach in the cooler and you don’t expect anything flashy – you just pray for something that won’t make you gag. Black women at 30 have it roughest as they select from a group of men that is 40% incarcerated, disproportionately lacking a college education, and increasingly gay. More and ore black women find themselves finishing law school, MBA programs, and doctorates and wondering where the hell their “I’m established!” prize is. The result? Social gatherings, labeled as “get-togethers”, where too old-to-be-single women and too-old-to-be-in-the-club men mingle in the sorrows and pressures of a society that promotes mid-twenty marriages. The DJ always plays “oldies” which are really songs a couple of years old, the women play spades, the men play dominoes, and everyone drowns themselves in liquor while discussing how horrible and confusing the opposite sex is. The hope is that in a drunken stupor, two people fuck, fall in love, and provide inspiration for their 30-something counterparts to follow.
With this in mind, I had still somehow fallen victim to Lauren’s charm as she invited me to one of her monthly get-togethers. As I piled stale chips onto a plate, I glanced around the room, now sure that I was indeed the youngest visitor by at least 3 years. As if she sensed my growing unease, Lauren rose from the couch where she and 2 other women had been arguing over the smallest “equipment” they had ever had to work with.
“T.J. did not look small” one woman laughed incredulously, “I always thought he was workin’ with something”.
As Lauren approached me she shouted back, “Girl he was no more than this big” and laughed as she made her thumb and index finger almost touch, “and that’s when he was real excited!”.
The two women doubled over with laughter as Lauren turned toward me and smiled, her sexiness dripping with each word as she said, “I’m so glad you could make it Rashaan!” The way she dragged out my name when she said it made it sound more like “Rashahhhhn” and created this sexual aura that I never had a clue could exist within those seven letters.
“No problem Lauren. You know I’d never really gotten a chance to see your crib, but its tight”. Did I just say “tight”? Damn I’m corny. As I responded I glanced at the ivory walls covered by African masks, Caribbean art, and hand-carved statuettes of African women. Not one to abandon her Caribbean ancestry, Lauren’s condo exemplified “Afro-centric” as the scent of Gonesh incense circled the room, forcing you to relax your nerves upon entrance.
“I see you’ve found the chips” she chuckled, “but the dips over there in the corner. I have hamburgers, barbecued chicken, potato salad, and beans in the pan over by the stove.”
“Wow!” I laughed, “Sounds good to me.”
“Mi casa, es su casa” she said winking.
“How do you know if I know Espanol?” I shot back smiling.
She smiled and scooted to within an inch of my face before looking up and whispering, “Translation: My house, is your house Rashaan”. Her soft breath warmed my cheek as she leaned in, gently brushing her lips against my ear, “Help yourself” she murmured, before sauntering back to the couch where her friends remained conversing.
Touched by Lauren’s intense sexuality, I fumbled with my plate before lounging in a seat near the oversized flat screen television that hogged up over 56 inches of wall space. Ever since Lauren gloated at work about her 56-inch plasma television, men cringed at the waste of such beautiful technology on a chick-flick like “Waiting to Exhale” or “Thin Line Between Love and Hate”. Images of grown women with over-buttered popcorn and a couple of boxes of Kleenex float through the minds of men as they imagine the vibrant color of high-definition television radiating something other than sports. Now as I took note of the hand-carved coffee table, I realized that Lauren was well established. Well established, but 33.

I've got a theory on women and their ages...but I'll get into that shit tomorrow. I need to shorten up my posts or somethin, but I gotta get this stuff off my chest! I'll holla - got an article due...

-R.D.