Fatal Flaw

Please note this is a multi-part series. So, as you read this, bear with me, I’m going somewhere, I promise.

There’s a flaw in my “happily single” moniker. Two things happened recently that are making me think I just might have to break down and get myself a permanent man. Not necessarily a husband, just someone who’s around all the time. Okay, maybe not all the time, that doesn’t sound sexy in the least…I do like my space. Check that, having my space is a deal breaker. Not space to do any dirt, I’m a very loyal, honest and forthright person in all my relationships, rather personal or professional. Sometimes though, I just want to do my own thing.

Things I don’t want to have to explain or apologize for like laying up on my couch and watching marathon re-runs of “Law & Order” while eating my favorite guilty pleasure dinner of sautéed spinach and french fries with a bag of microwave kettle korn popcorn for dessert. Oh, and since I just confessed to being honest and forthright, half a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Weird I know. Maybe it’s not how you would spend your free evening, but that’s the beauty of space. You do you in yours, and let me do me in mine.

And this was all fine and good until the first incident happened. I admit upfront, it’s a little silly, but it resonated deeply all the same. It was a Tuesday night, pretty much like any other. My writing sessions skew late, as I like to spend my days running on the beach, shopping when the stores are empty, catching matinee movies.

It was about nine o’clock and I was in the middle of re-writing a TV Spec I’ve been working on since before the writer’s strike, which is my way of letting you know the shit should’ve been finished months ago. Anyhoo, when creative genius fails to strike, I tend to eat.

No need to worry potential permanent man, if you’re out there reading this. I only allow myself healthy snacks when laboring at the computer. Grapes. Sugarless gum (Trident Tropical Twister to be exact). Pumpkin seeds, which up ‘til now were an excellent source of fiber until the shell from one of them suckers got lodged in my throat and nearly killed me. I can laugh about it now, but at the time - as I was gagging and choking, and dry heaving - one thought kept popping into my head: this wouldn’t be happening to me if I had a man.

If I had a man he would know what to do, he would save me from this horrible fate of dying alone, on my kitchen floor, in my pajamas (thank God, I had been in the mood to put on cute pajamas or I would’ve really been freaked). My fear and panic soon gave way to anger and disbelief. How could I have been so stupid and not seen this coming? People always talk about women needing a man for security, companionship, procreation, hopefully the rearing of the child afterwards, but no one has said boo to me about needing man, in case of an emergency like choking to death. I don’t need that much space. I could give up “Law & Order” night for a man who knows the Heimlich maneuver. Couldn’t I?

To be continued…

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 Gregory’s X…WHY blog is exclusive to Urban Thought Collective.

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