Urban Thought Collective

Thanks for the supportive feedback.

To UTC commenter Nohunchback: How cute are you giving me explicit directions on how to Heimlich myself? I’m sincerely touched.

Before continuing though, let’s get a few things straight…

My need for space is not code for lonely.

A) My close knit family is only a stone’s throw away from providing all the loving company I can handle, as is my mom’s Kaluha cake, which I’m pretty sure could cure cancer if the FDA would just approve it already.

B) I’m damn good company and having someone around simply to attest to the fact doesn’t make it any more true. It’s not my fault the things I like to do are solo ventures; reading, writing, Sunday crossword puzzles.

With the advent of “reality TV,” and “You Tube” America is sadly becoming a society where every activity requires an audience. Like nothing we do counts if someone doesn’t witness it. Landing on the moon is a televised noteworthy experience, but confessing you slept with your husband’s best friend should really be handled privately. More to the point, if said individual spent a little more alone time figuring out the kind of person she wants to be, one can hope that adulterer wouldn’t make the list.

And I am well aware of all the ways a man is necessary that don’t involve emergencies but do require him to wrap his arms around me. At the risk of putting my entire personal life on blast, allow me to state for the jury that sex is very important to me. I enjoy it tremendously. That said, though, it doesn’t require a permanent man. It requires an AIDS test, a condom, clean sheets, mutual attraction, a semblance of trust, and a background check. It doesn’t have to be official, but an affidavit, a resume, a sworn statement from a friend of a friend, something that proves you’re not a nut job. After that, game on.

Now for a brief recap…

Last we spoke, I was lamenting how if I had a man, I might be spared the humiliation of being found dead on my kitchen floor, which luckily, I’d mopped that morning. I’ll be damned if CSI is going to come up in here and decide that I died alone because I couldn’t keep a clean house. I’m a neat freak. So much so I had to stop myself from washing the few dishes resting in my sink before calling 911. As I dialed 9, I stopped myself again. Even with Blue Cross, a trip to the ER can run an easy $2000. That’s like mortgage money. So what, I survive this scare only to face a bigger one, because I have nowhere to live? And then it hit me—these were strange thoughts for a person who’s supposedly dying. I’d imagined my last moments would be deep and enlightened, not silly, and oh thank God, I deep conditioned my hair and put on cute pajamas. I can’t have CSI up in here thinking the reason I died alone was because I let myself go.

Yes, I know CSI doesn’t usually investigate deaths of random black people, but maybe the sudden demise of a healthy woman who works out seven days a week, hasn’t had a hamburger in fifteen years and was recently carded at Trader Joe’s while buying scotch for her 99 year-old grandfather, despite being well past the age of 21 is worthy of at least a minor look-see. And if a sober Gary Dourdan wants to handle the investigation personally, I wouldn’t be mad. Hell, his fine coked-up, methed-out ass wouldn’t even need to be all that sober. I’m dead after all, it’s high time to let some of my standards go.

At this point I was starting to get lightheaded, partly from panic, partly from not being able to breathe fully. Turns out I wasn’t choking, but rather the shell of pumpkin seed had lodged itself in the skin of my esophagus and my body was working overtime trying to expel the foreign object in it’s midst, meaning I was busy sweating, convulsing and throwing up the entire contents of my stomach. Which, I’m embarrassed to admit caused me a sizeable amount of glee, as I realized that once I survived this indignity, I’d be able to polish off the bottle of Pinot Grigio that was calling my name from the fridge without going over my daily allowed calorie intake. In case you missed it, I’m that girl who can always find a silver lining, no matter how deeply it is buried.

Clearly in distress, though not quite on death’s door, I decided since I was wearing cute pajamas and having a good hair day, I should try to find a neighbor who could help me. And maybe, just maybe, my permanent man in the process.

Stay tuned…

Tamara T. Gregory is a writer/producer/traveler. Happily single (yes, there really is such a thing), she is an expert on the dating game. Her debut novel, Passport Diaries, is an LA Times bestseller and is soon to become a Hollywood motion picture. The book is available at www.passportdiaries.com. Gregory’s X…WHY blog is exclusive to Urban Thought Collective.