Fatal Flaw: The Finale

They say the third times the charm, right? Better be. I know I’ve made fun of this whole incident, but on the real, I think we all can agree-it’s time for it to be over.

I knock, knock, knock on Tanya’s door, the other black girl who lives on my floor. The one who everyone (everyone white that is) thinks is me and vice versa.

I’m four inches taller and her stomach is way flatter. I’m all T to her A (I only bother to mention it because both our names start with T and end with A). Simply said, we’re both cute, but we look nothing alike. We ARE nothing alike. She’s the 9 to 5 accountant with the handsome 6 foot 3 inch brotha from Compton boyfriend, and I’m the night owl writer choking to death alone in the hallway, all because besides not having a permanent man, I’m too cheap to call 911, and I care way too much about what people think to let the Ukrainians next door touch me.

The good thing about letting Tanya save me is, if it turns out the paramedics have to wheel me out of here, half the building will think it’s her that this humiliating event is happening to and the other half will hear as much from me once I’m able to talk again.

Just as she opens the door, something foul comes up in my mouth. I flee home. Its one thing to ask a person to save you, it’s quite another to project bile on their floor. That’s the kind of thing that should only occur in the privacy of one’s own home. You know, like watching porn.

Two minutes pass by. Two…long…minutes, before Tanya strolls in. Though heaving in the kitchen sink, I notice out the corner of my eye that she’s wearing a cute brown T-shirt, yet she came to her door in a faded yellow comfy number. The kind of t-shirt only a girl with a permanent man can wear, because…duh, he would be there to save her before the audience formed.

A part of me is pissed, here I am potentially dying and this heifer is doing wardrobe changes? But then a cooler head prevailed and I realized I would’ve done the same thing. Faded, comfy t-shirts should only be worn in the privacy of one’s own home. You know, like gauchos (I don’t care what Vogue says).

Tanya’s first instinct is to call 911. I stop her. Bitch I could’ve done that. I know we’re entering an enlightened age where we no longer call each other niggas and bitches, but all this drama has made me grumpy. And when I’m grumpy, enlightenment can kick rocks.

Wisely moving on to plan B, Tanya moves to my computer and logs on to WEB M.D., typing in “what to do if a pumpkin seed shell gets caught in your throat?”

Ha! The first thing it said was only call 911 as a last resort. My reasoning was wack, but my instinct was on point. Next we learn that the best thing to do is to eat some bread. Damn. An English muffin is 130 calories. Dry. There goes my glass of wine.

Tanya looks at me like I’m crazy as I toss a multi-grain English muffin into the broiler. My look back says you changed t-shirts, I’m toasting my double fiber bread. As I open the fridge to grab some butter her eyes go wide as she spots my coveted pinot grigio. If I were bigger person I’d offer her some, but kick rocks to that too.

Chew, chew, swallow. Gulp. Ouch. Still there. Chew, chew, swallow. Gulp. Gulp. O…It’s gone! The crisis was over. The shell has moved on. I am saved!

Grateful and exhausted, I lift my head in time to see that Tanya has poured herself a glass anyway and was kicking it on my couch like she had a right to be there. Again, something I probably would’ve done. And there it was…in that moment I saw enough of me in her to realize that maybe God orchestrated this whole fiasco to remind me that I don’t need a permanent man to save me. I was capable of doing that all by myself. And maybe, just maybe, this happened to me so that I could tell you the same thing.

Ladies, if you’re looking for someone to share your life with, cool, but this whole waiting on a “white knight to ride in to save you from it” business has got to stop.

First of all, it’s unrealistic. Only one out of the six guys I asked knew how to do the Heimlich maneuver (it seems tall men play basketball at the Y on Saturdays and the short one takes CPR classes there). None of them thought about logging on to Web M.D. I can’t throw any shade there, because well, neither did I. All of them insisted they would’ve called 911 over my objections. So you see? Having a permanent man in this situation wouldn’t have helped me at all.

Second and most importantly, it’s unfair. Equally yoked, that’s what the bible says, so unless we can stop bullets with our gold bracelets and pilot our own invisible plane, it’s unfair for us to ask a man to play super hero. To save us from drowning in debt, cure our loneliness, revive our self-esteem, or even to simply hang around in case of emergencies. We’re big girls, we can handle whatever life throws our way, even if it’s admitting we want a permanent man for absolutely no reason at all except because…our heart desires one.