I'm Judging You (4 page)

The friend who disapproves (The Holy Roller)

I love Jesus as much as the next person, but some friends are hard to be around when they're all Jesus, allatahm. Of course there's nothing wrong with taking pride in your spiritual beliefs, but they take it overboard, and it makes them hard to talk to. You have to second-guess your decision to invite them to a girls' night in because you know you're all going to start talking about sex, and that makes them uncomfortable.

Can grown people please have healthy conversations about who we decided to do the horizontal tango with without the judgy eyes? “Ohmygoodness,” the Holy Roller will gasp, “you slept with him and you've only known him for a year?” The worst part is when you remember how free they were before they got born again. You don't want to point out their hypocrisy, because the high horse they're sitting on looks comfortable, but you're tempted.

You can't tell them anything you're doing if it isn't sanctified and holy. You can only talk about so much, so they're the friend you tell when you finally go to church on Easter. And then they're proud and think their efforts at converting you are finally working. And you can't tell them that the only reason you went is because you knew Mom would side-eye you if you didn't.

*   *   *

At one point or another, we've all been one of these bad friends, even if just for a spurt of time. The key is to not embody these traits. We shouldn't make a habit of being the anti–Golden Girl. (Although you know Blanche Devereaux would totally sleep with your husband. Probably on your wedding night, too.)

 

3. When Baehood Goes Bad

Love is blind and can render you averse to making sensible decisions. Sometimes, we get into relationships and lose all semblance of grounding because those endorphins have us all googly-eyed. This is why I must judge us for baehood that goes bad.

My friend was dating a dude who defied logic by being about twenty types of terrible. I was actually impressed by his inability to be a well-functioning adult. It was like he was allergic to adulting. But I'm thankful for him because he is proof positive that I need to get my creativity game up, because I could not make up a better story of when baehood goes bad.

We will call my friend “Tina,” and we'll call bad bae “Carlos.” Tina is a professional lady with a job that has benefits and perks and a good salary. She owns her own apartment and she enjoys long strokes in the sheets. Carlos was a dude with a bike. That's about it. As in, Carlos's bike was the most valuable possession he had, and it was his only mode of transportation. His employment was questionable; Tina didn't know what he did, and I suspect she was afraid to ask. It would be nice to assume that he worked at the casino, since he spent so much time there. Carlos clearly had a bit of a gambling problem, because only people who are paid to work at the casino should be there so damb much, especially when it's fifteen miles from your house and you have to ride a bike all the way there every day. GO HOME, ROGER.

Anyway, Tina was filled with Carlos-lust, and he was best when he was horizontal (well, sometimes vertical, because he did that trick where he held her up and … lemme stop). How do I know all this? Because one night when she was frustrated about him she spilled the beans. It was raining outside, and he was at the casino, unable to get home because his bicycle was a bicycle and not a damb car. He wanted her to come pick him up and had the nerve to get mad that she was not about that life.

I was like, “Let me make sure I get this straight. Your boo, who is a gambling addict riding around town on a bike, got mad at
you
for not wanting to scoop his ass up because it was raining and he was stuck at the casino?”

She huffed, “Basically,” and I realized that I need friends with higher self-esteem and better decision-making skills, because Jesus be some discernment to pick them better. Also, was Uber unavailable on that rainy night? Did public transportation go on strike? How do you get stranded at the gahtdamb casino, Jobless Jonah?

Anywho, she didn't pick him up and she didn't hear from him for another week, and he was not returning her calls. Was Bicycle Bob
that
mad that she didn't give him a ride? She was worried about him, so she decided to go check on him at his mom's house. Because that's where he lived. Let me repeat that. Tina went to Carlos's mama's house, where he lived, to find out why he was not returning her calls. When I tell you I was so done that I was burned to a crisp on the inside? I went from medium rare to burnt so quick.
YOUR TEN-SPEED-RIDING, GAMBLING-ADDICT BOO WITH A TEMPER ALSO LIVES WITH HIS MAMA?!
In that moment, I wondered why my friend didn't seem to have mentors or role models or sense, because ain't no way this should be the chump she's dealing with.
No way
. I also wondered where I had gone wrong with friends so foolish.

But I needed to know what she encountered at Mom's crib. What happened?

Well, Ten-Speed Thomas's mom informed Tina that her son, the degenerate, was in jail. At least he wasn't just ignoring her. (Silver linings!) Why was he locked up? He had violated his probation, which she did not even know he was on. And why was he on probation? For making counterfeit money, which he used at the casino to gamble. He was back in jail for doing it again, because clearly he is dumber than a box of toenail clippings. This is NOT a situation where you ought to be too legit to quit, Bike Billy!

At this point, I wanted to write out all the foolishness on a giant whiteboard for her: “Gambling addict. On a bike. Lives with his mama. Expects you to pick him up when it rains. Goes MIA. Is actually in jail for trying to feed said gambling addiction.” Clearly he isn't even any good at the gambling thing, because if he was winning, he wouldn't have to print fake money. And he would not be riding around town on a ten-speed, fifteen miles each way, to go get his money-flushing habit on. Carlos excelled only at failing perpetually.

THIS was the man she was now basically mourning, and I sat flabbergasted that she wasn't too embarrassed to tell anyone this. This is the kind of thing that you take to your grave and leave between you and your God, because you should be too ashamed. The sheer quantity of bad decisions here surpasses the number of snowflakes on Mount Everest. If I was with a nincompoop like Carlos, I'd deny it so hard that I'd get whiplash from shaking my head no so vigorously. He was a total IJOT,
6
and the story was so entirely ridiculous that I wondered out loud, “How did you get here? Nobody's supposed to be here.”

I didn't have to ask Tina why she was even entertaining Two-Wheel Tyler: that peen was TOO BOMB. Let me translate: Carlos was a dick deity. He was a penis prince. He was a stroke savant with a crowned cock, and my girl was a-dick-ted. (BA-DUM-TSS! I'm here all day, folks!)

There is a fact that cannot be denied or disproven by science. Lean in close and receive this truth: behind every ain't-good-for-nothing man are bedroom skills beyond measure. It's like the universe's way of balancing itself out. It should have its own chapter in every holy book and scientific text, because it is an actual factual.

So many of our worst heartbreaks were probably caused by men who wouldn't know responsible if it slapped them in the face. Sure, we should have realized they weren't about shit when the only texts we'd get were “What are you doing?” at midnight. But we remember the times we had in betwixt them sheets, and that one trick and how we needed a five-hour nap afterwards because they had temporarily stroked the spirit out of us and we needed to recharge. So I'm told by a friend, of course. I'm not saying I've experienced any of this. HEY, MOM! All of this is at play when we deal with men like Cycling Clyde. Tina was caught up in the rapture of Carlos's sheet skills. I almost understood. Although I still wouldn't have told a soul.

I think what happens is that these guys spend so much time working on being fantastic at sex that they have no time left to nurture and develop other areas of their lives. When you have perfected the art of making people orgasm at will with beguilements, shortcuts, twists of the tongue, and anglings of the body, then I get why you have no energy left for learning to read. I can see why you can't hold a job or file taxes. It's not your fault, gentlemen. You were so busy learning how to be of sexual service that you missed the class on being a decent human being. But none of us minded after we handed you the panny drawls and you proceeded to do the job so well that we wanted to tip you afterwards but we fell asleep directly. Reminisces about every Scorpio man I've ever dated. I can't even. MOM, SKIP THIS CHAPTER.

I've heard about Island Peen Syndrome, too. It's an urban legend (but proven true by Lauryn Hill's life) that sleeping with West Indian or island men will render you useless to functional life. Apparently, it is the kind of PINOT NOIR (shout-out to Tituss Burgess!) that will have you babysitting your enemy's kids willingly. Word on the street is that if you mess with the wrong (or right
—
OH SO RIGHT) sperm stick, you might find yourself washing dishes with a scarf on your head and no shoes on. Next thing you know, you've sold all your possessions and moved to a commune where you're Sister Wife #8. Endorphins are some intergalactic imbeciles. They tell us all lies sometimes. Things like “Exercise is fun” and “This guy is decent. Totally trust him.”

This magic peen carrier is also the kind of man who will give you a promise ring—an entirely meaningless concept that perplexes me to no end—and not only will you accept, but you'll show it to all your friends and be so giddy that you miss all their strong side-eyes directed at you. And because he is perpetually “in between jobs” (code for “never working”), it's probably made of the finest in Diamonique stones and synthetic sterling silver. I don't understand them or their purpose. What are people promising when they exchange these rings? Is it one of those “I'm promising that one day I'll promise you my all” things? Are they a promise to one day get engaged? Because no one should be here for that promise inception. Are they a promise to get married? Because then they're engagement rings. See what I mean? Pointless!

If your insignificant other gives you a “promise ring,” feel free to accidentally lose it down the drain. It has about as much importance and symbolism as a heart drawn in the sand at low tide. Who has time for these bald-headed can't-commit-to-real-things games? Promise rings are for eighth graders, not adults. A chastity promise ring? Maybe. A promise ring to stop smoking? I see it. A promise ring to one day propose to you like an adult? NO. The only folks who can get away with rocking promise rings should also have curfews. If you're grown as hell and you're walking around rocking a promise ring, you need to go sit down and think 'bout your life. I hate having a conversation with someone when they are wearing a ring on that ring finger, and it goes like this:

ME:
“Aww, you got engaged? When?”

HER:
“Gurl, nah. It's just a promise ring. Isn't my sweetie the best?”

ME:
*Blinks slowly* *chuckles nervously* “Well, it was good seeing you.”

If you're not ready to propose, get someone a pendant or a bracelet or a trip to Fiji. Don't be dangling what could be with a promise ring. And on the subject of stupid love decisions, someone who would accept a promise ring is also 98.2 percent more likely to get their partner's name tatted on them after their third date. It's science. Look it up. (But don't, because I made it up. It's true, though.) Tattooing the name of a significant other on you needs to come after careful deliberation, knowing that person for a long time, and taking a blood oath that forbids a breakup. It probably should not happen after that session where you had multiple toe twitches for the first time. You are not in your right mind, beloved.

Human beings are more shortsighted than bats in the daytime. Relationships start off all hot and heavy, and that honeymoon phase has us thinking new love is perfect love. This is certainly not the time to go to a tattoo parlor to get your beloved's name permanently affixed to your lower back. Or your bicep. Or your chest. Wait until you've woken up next to them in the morning and experienced their dragon breath. See if you're still 100 percent after the first couple of times their “Good morning” curled your eyelashes before they curled your toes. See if you still like them after you've seen their underwear in the middle of the floor even though the laundry basket is RIGHT THERE. Do you still like them after you meet their mother, who seems unwilling to let go of her “baby”? Do you still like them after you've had a major argument where you wanted to cuss out them
and
their ancestors? What about when they were sick and acting like they got polio even though it was just a cold? What about when they were down and out and lost a job? Are you still loving bae at their worst? If you haven't gone through any of this yet, methinks you should wait on the tattoos.

I am a believer that you don't know somebody until you've seen them handle conflict or seen them at their worst. If you love them through that, and you've considered it for a while, then maybe you can go get their name installed on your body. What
I
am not doing is getting permanent work on my body for temporary situations, like many relationships tend to be. I'm not getting nobody's name tattooed on me, not even my own. I'm not even sure I like
me
enough. I can prove my love is real in other ways. I can add you to my Hulu account and give you access to my Amazon Prime so you know what we have is legit. I might even share that last spoon of rice with you to let you really know that I'm here for YOU, boo. But tattoo your name on my body? NO SIR.

Part of me thinks people get tattoos of their partner's name to show that they're in it for the long run, on some ride-or-die type thing. The idea that folks need to stand by their boos in the face of any and all types of bad behavior and crap is nonsensical. It is something that gets many of us in situations that we feel guilty about backing out of because we feel like we need to be the Bonnie to their Clyde, even if we suffer tremendously for it. Like Tina and our boy Carlos. The moment Tina heard Carlos was in jail should have been the moment she bounced and considered that “relationship,” which really was a fuckbuddyship, done. Odds were, homeboy was going to be doing the time he avoided the first time.