Always the Sis, Rarely the SO

Picture this.

He'll walk in the room, dipped in one of the fifty immaculate shades of chocolate that inhabit the Earth. More than likely, he's a bearded bae with a belly. "Black Lumberjacks," as my not-so-baby sister colorfully puts it, describing the guys who typically butter my biscuit (quite accurately, I might add). His aura is prepossessing. Style? Amen. And if we're really lucky, his taste in music is A1. Swoon.


At this point, I feel like I'm in the "You Don't Know My Name" video. That Main Ingredient sample could drop at any moment and though we're at a bar, I'll already have the milk and cream ready for his coffee. Thoughts both romantic and NSFW begin to manifest and I'm so gone. I smirk. He smirks. Drinks are sipped. Maybe some small, flirtatious banter happens. He probably made a smooth attempt to exchange numbers; maybe I did.

Weeks pass and the frequent texts have turned into FaceTime or Snap sessions. I mean, sleep is being sacrificed at this point. So, there has to be some potential there, right? We're obviously diggin' each other. Things are looking pretty damn promising.

Then, it happens: I find one hundred reasons why he's totally not interested in me.

He's gonna hate my crooked smile. Maybe he'll think my friend's cuter. Does he even really like big girls or am I auditioning to be the homie? He's not a boob man; my God, WHO EVEN IS in 2016? I'm entirely too loud and too much for this dude. He'll hate that I'm still living at home. AND no license? Sigh. He'll loathe picking me up for dates. I'm either too forward or not forward enough. I'm just not that girl, whatever "that" means.

Mentally, it's a shit show. If we're being frank, it's always a shit show when it comes to men and I. I'm clearly in the business of self-sabotage. I instantly start digging into my metaphorical dollar bin and pull out all types of wild explanations as to why I'm not a catch. How sad is that?

Just a mere five years ago, you'd be hard pressed to find me actually taking the initiative to talk to a guy. No matter how much chemistry we had, this broad here wouldn't move an inch. I won't discredit my progress when it comes to the chase. With the right amount of tequila in my system, I can go from Charlotte to Samantha real quick. That being said, I have SUCH a long way to go.

As much of a pain in the ass it is to crash land a situation before it even leaves the runway, it's a part of this entire self-love journey. I have to be real with myself, admitting that the demons who take pleasure in creating an environment of deprecation are still very active within me. I, however, can't offer country for them. There's a reason why this guy's stuck around. He's clearly interested in unwrapping my layers, perhaps both figeratively and literally. This man could be my best friend, my life partner, or another name on the list of fuckboys I've dealt with. I'll never know if I make some preemptive decision for the both of us. Plus, I'm a bomb ass broad, unparalleled in many ways. Take a bow, girl!

Frequently, I've found myself always becoming the "sis" and very rarely the "significant other". I look back and realize I should take a bit of responsibility for how often that ensues. I have to make the change to accept my bae blessings as they come. And, honey, do they come ... in numbers. Don't get it twisted.

Maybe I will grab a bite with ol' boy this week and see what comes of it. He's been my best friend on Snapchat for weeks. It'd be a pleasure and a privilege for both parties involved.

"Hello ... can I speak to ... to Michael?" 

Bee Pollard