Waiting to Exhale Read online

  “I just hope it’s something sexy and not any of those office getups you’ve got a closet full of.”

  “Mama, what difference does it make what I’m wearing? You’re two thousand miles away, and I don’t exactly need your approval, now do I?”

  “Look, you don’t have to tell me where I live. And no, you don’t need my approval for anything, but I’m still your mother, so watch the tone of your voice. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I’m wearing a skin-tight dress with the back cut down to my behind and the front slit almost to my navel. How’s that sound?”

  “Good. Just wear a warm coat. Do you have a date?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Either you do or you don’t—which is it?”

  “No, but I was invited out.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Male, Mama.”

  “Then why ain’t you going with him?”

  “Mama, it’s a long story, and look, I’m trying to get dressed. What are you doing tonight?”

  “Staying home. It’s too much violence going on to be out on New Year’s for me, so me and Sheila’s cooking some black-eyed peas and chitterlings for tomorrow, and the kids rented some videos and they’re making popcorn balls.”

  “Well, tell everybody Happy New Year for me.”

  “Wait a minute! Don’t hang up yet! Do me a favor.”

  “What’s that, Mama?”

  “Try not to swear.”

  “I won’t, Mama. And give me some credit. I don’t use the same kind of language around men that I do when I’m with my girlfriends—at least not until I get to know him better.”

  “You still smoking?”

  “Every once in a while,” I said.

  “Well, if you have to have a cigarette, smoke it in the bathroom and keep some breath spray in your purse.”

  “I will, Mama.”

  “And please try to smile, Savannah.”

  “I will, Mama. I’ll grin all night.”

  “And put on a little extra makeup and wear your best cologne.”

  “I am, Mama, I am.”

  “Good, and just remember: Every man you meet don’t have to be a potential husband. If you ain’t exactly thrilled about him, be nice and act friendly anyway. He might just have some friends you like better.”

  “Are you speaking from experience?”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bye, baby. And you have a Happy New Year.”

  “You too,” I said, and hung up. I poured myself a glass of wine, lit another cigarette, and stood over by the window. Now it was snowing hard and horizontally. I couldn’t see anything except lights from office buildings, red taillights and yellow headlights moving on the freeway. Mama just doesn’t know. I’ll be glad when I can pick up the phone one day and tell her I want her to meet my future husband. Maybe then she’ll give me a break.

  I went into the bathroom and plugged in the curling iron, and without even giving it a second thought, I found myself splashing on puddles of Joy. After I blow-dried my hair, I turned the fan on because it was getting too hot. My cat, Yasmine, followed me into the bedroom and sat down next to me on the bed. I put my panty hose on, then slipped into my new purple suede pumps so I could break them in. I stood up and looked down at my stomach. It was so bloated it looked like I was about three months pregnant. Yasmine looked at me like she agreed. I don’t know how I could forget that my period was due in four days, which should explain why I’d been such a bitch at work and why I spent half of last night crying for absolutely no reason I could think of. This PMS shit is definitely for real, and it’s getting worse every year. I wish I knew what to do about it. I took the panty hose off and rummaged through my top dresser drawer until I found some with a control top. They didn’t help all that much, which means I’m going to have to hold my stomach in when I walk, because I’m wearing this dress tonight and that’s all there is to it. And I lied to Mama. The only thing that’s true about this dress is that it’s tight. It’s also teal-blue suede, and since I don’t have any cleavage, my ass is about the only thing that makes a statement in it.

  This hair is tired, but I was doing the best I could with the curling iron. I took another sip of my wine, hoping it would help me get in some kind of festive mood, and turned on the little radio sitting on the back of the toilet. I was singing “How Will I Know” right along with Whitney Houston while I put on my makeup. I took my time because I didn’t want to look like I was wearing any, except for the lipstick. I love lipstick but wear only three colors: red-red and fuchsia, and orange in the summer. After I blotted my lips, I got a bottle of red nail polish out of the medicine cabinet to add a new coat to the two that had already dulled since yesterday. Then I put a pair of these drop-dead crystal earrings on and looked at myself in the mirror. I thought I looked pretty good, but my feet were already killing me. Hopefully, in another hour or two these shoes’ll be looser. I went into the living room and turned on the TV. Somebody was asking all these celebrities about their New Year resolutions. As if anybody cared.

  I shook the bottle of polish and started with my thumb. Then, as corny as I know it is, I actually found myself thinking about a few resolutions of my own. On the top of my list is finding a husband. I promise myself that in 1990 I will not spend another birthday by myself, another Fourth of July by myself, another Thanksgiving by myself, and definitely not another Valentine’s Day, Christmas, or New Year’s by myself.

  I also need to quit smoking. But not tonight. I have to be realistic about this shit. But before my thirty-seventh birthday, which is ten whole months away, I will. I just pray I don’t get fat. So far I’ve been pretty lucky. I look and feel almost as tight as I did when I was thirty, and the most exercise I get is walking to my car. That’s pitiful, when I think about it. I know I’m at that age when my body is going to start corroding if I don’t do something to slow down the process. I remember the day I turned thirty. I was getting out of the shower and I stood in front of the mirror and stared at myself for a long time. I examined every inch of my body and appreciated the fact that I finally looked like a grown woman. I also assumed that this was how I was going to look for the rest of my life. The way I saw it, I was never going to age; I’d just look up one day and be old. And Lord only knows what’d happen to my body if I were to have a baby about now. It looks like somebody stenciled beige skid marks all over Sheila’s breasts, stomach, and hips. I can’t imagine having a baby at forty. That’s too old to be bringing anything into the world if you ask me. But let me shut up. If I was still able, the right man could probably talk me into having one at fifty. Anyway, when I get to Phoenix, I’m joining a health club and I’ll start doing aerobics and ride that bike I spent a fortune on and have only ridden around the block. So maybe by the time I quit smoking, I’ll have already replaced one bad habit with a good one. Shit, I feel better already.

  After I finished both hands and started blowing on them, I was wondering: Is it really possible to want something so bad that you could make it happen just by thinking about it? I mean, could I just dream myself up a husband? Wouldn’t it sort of be like praying? A long time ago, I asked God to please send me a decent man, and one by one, what I got was Robert, Cedric, Raymond, and Kenneth. Unfortunately, I left out some very important details: like how about a little compassion, some pride as opposed to cockiness, some confidence as opposed to arrogance. Now I’m more specific: Could You make sure he talks about what he feels and not just about what he thinks? Could he have a genuine sense of his purpose in life, a sense of humor, and could he already be what he aspired to? Could he be honest, responsible, mature, drug-free, and a little bit spontaneous? Could he be full of zest, good-enough-looking for me, and please let him be a slow, tender, passionate lover? It takes me forever to say my prayers these days, but I don’t care, because this time around, I want to make sure God doesn’t have to do any guesswork.

  The truth of the matter is, I’ve spent nine years of my adult life living with three different men that I’m glad I didn’t marry because all three of them were mistakes. Back then, I felt like I had to live with them in order to find out that I couldn’t live with them. However, I refuse to live with another one unless I’m married to him: That much I do know. I’ll take my chances the next time around. People aren’t so quick to call it quits when they’re married. I’m also willing to spend the rest of my life alone if I have to, until I find someone that makes me feel like I was born with a tiara on my head. People like Sheila and Mama are beginning to make me feel as if I should be embarrassed or ashamed for not having a husband by now. Mama’s got about ten empty pages in the family scrapbook set aside for my wedding pictures. At this point, they’d rather see me settle for some lackluster man with the right credentials: Put my yearnings for love a little lower on the totem pole and just be done with it. But I can’t do that. All I’ve got is one life, and this is one area that’s too large for me to compromise.

  As a matter of fact, most of the men I’ve met over the last few years have been boring, selfish, manipulative, or weak. Worse than babies. Got an excuse for everything. Some were just plain lost. Of course the flip side is the die-hard buppies, who think that the true measure of success is how much money they make, what kind of car they drive, how big their house is, and how much pussy they can get before they die. Their priorities are all fucked up. And the more successful they are, the more arrogant they are. They’ve taken these stupid statistics about us to heart and are having the time of their lives. They do not hold themselves accountable to anybody for anything, and they’re getting away with murder when it comes to women. And we let them. They lie to us without a conscience, they fuck as many of us at a time as they want to and then cry that “I’m not ready to make a commitment yet” bullshit as soon as you act like you’re serious about them. They have done one helluva job convincing themselves—and a whole lot of us—that we should feel desperate, which is why so many of us are willing to do damn near anything to snag one of them. Well, not me. I don’t need a man to rescue me or take care of me financially—I can take care of myself. What would be nice is to know you’re with one who’s looking out for your best interests, one who makes you feel special, safe, and secure. And one who excites you. I’m tired of being the thriller, always trying to prove myself. Shit, I want to be the thrilleefor a change. I want a man to go out of his way for me. It would also be nice to meet one who understands that it takes more than a stiff dick to keep a woman happy. But most of the ones I’ve met don’t have a clue.

  What I want to know is this. How do you tell a man—in a nice way—that he makes you sick? Cecil was so vulgar when he drank that I had to drive his ass home after we went out. Which was all of three times. He still doesn’t understand why I didn’t want to see him anymore. Bill just irritated the hell out of me. I think he got a real charge bringing everything he thought I did wrong to my attention. He corrected me whenever I mispronounced a word and told me that I watered my plants too much. He wouldn’t eat my jelly because some dots of butter were in it. And he insisted on showing me how to get more dishes in the dishwasher. He was always right, and everything had to be done his way. He made me want to throw up. And what if a man’s a drag in bed? This list is too long to name names, but of course all black men think they can fuck because they all have at least ten-inch dicks. I wish I could tell some of them that they should start by checking the dictionary under F for “foreplay,” G for “gentle,” and T for “tender” or “take your time.” I’ve wanted to tell some of them that acrobatics and banging the hell out of me are not the same as making love. I’ve had enough bladder infections to last the rest of my life. And boring? John and Elliot were beyond dull. All they ever talked about were their jobs and sports. At first I thought this shit was masculine, but they lived and breathed for ESPN. Both of them had satellites, which is why neither one of them lasted longer than a baseball season. And what about Sam and Arthur and a few others, who were “recreational” drug users but couldn’t do anything unless they did a few lines or smoked a joint first? I made the mistake of telling them that right after college cocaine became my drug of choice but I stopped doing that shit years and years ago. Now that we’re all damn near middle age, I don’t want to be around anybody who’s still into drugs. And I’m not interested in rehabilitating anybody, either. I’ve tried it, and it doesn’t work. And Darrell. The wimp. He was scared of damn near everything: spiders, snakes, mice, heights, and he wouldn’t drive at night and couldn’t fix shit. And then there’re the rest, the ones who wanted to own me after I slept with them two or three times, or the ones who were just too stiff and IBMish, or so married to their jobs that they hardly had any time left for themselves, let alone me.

  I have tried being honest, telling them as diplomatically as I possibly could that they just weren’t right for me, that they shouldn’t take it personally because there was somebody out there for everybody. Which is how I became “the bitch.” They couldn’t stand the thought of being rejected, that I didn’t want them, so of course something had to be wrong with me. I know I’m not perfect, but I’ve spent tons of energy trying to be. I wanted to tell all of them to come back and see me after they grew up or got some serious counseling. Unfortunately, most men are deaf. They hate advice. Especially if it’s from a woman. They get defensive as hell if you so much as suggest that there’s a few things they might try doing that would truly please you. “Fuck you” is what they ended up saying to me, because they didn’t want to be told what I liked or needed; they preferred to guess. Well, I’m here to tell you that at least seventy-five percent of the ones I’ve met were terrible guessers.

  All I’ve had in the three years I’ve been in Denver are dates from hell in one form or another. I’m sick of dating. All through college I had a boyfriend. All my girlfriends had boyfriends. We didn’t date. White girls dated. You met a guy at a party or a club or somewhere, and if you liked the way he looked or danced or smelled or what he had to say and how he said it, the next thing you knew you went out, then you slept together, and if he made you feel all tingly inside and made you smile and even laugh, and if on top of this he made you come, the next thing you knew you were going together until some lengthy or unforgivable bullshit happened and you broke up. Then you started all over. I had four contiguous boyfriends in college and never went more than two weeks without having an orgasm. I had no idea what loneliness felt like, because somebody was always waiting in the wings to fill whatever’s-his-name’s shoes if he blew it.

  Times have damn sure changed.

  And I can’t lie. Now I worry. I worry about if and when I’ll ever find the right man, if I’ll ever be able to exhale. The more I try not to think about it, the more I think about it. This morning, I was drinking a cup of coffee, when it occurred to me that my life is half over. Never in a million years would I have ever believed that I would be thirty-six years old and still childless and single. But here I am.

  I turned the TV off because I was making myself feel too sad and wishy-washy, and I hate it when I get like this. Now that my nails were dry, I went into the bathroom to comb out my hair. The black lace bra I had put on was damn near empty, and I don’t even know why I bothered wearing it. If I had the nerve, I swear I’d buy me some bigger breasts instead of walking around all these years with this big ass and big legs and these little sunny-side-ups on my chest.

  I put my dress on and got my coat and walked out to press for the elevator. Please God, I said, as I stood there, if this man isn’t The One, at least let me have some fun tonight. Let me dance so hard that I sweat. Let me laugh. Hell, let me feel something.

  When the elevator doors opened and I started going down, I couldn’t believe it when Gerard—my high school sweetheart—suddenly popped into my head. He was the first major love of my life. The one who sat on the couch with me while I baby-sat and kissed me during Shock Theatre for two years in a row; the one who caressed my breasts through my blouse and then stopped because he respected me; the one who looked for me in the crowd when he scored a touchdown, gave me Valentine candy, and worked part time at McDonald’s so he could help take care of his mother. He was already a man at seventeen years old, and I never even slept with him. He ended up going to Vietnam, I went away to college, and I never went back to Pittsburgh. I felt myself smiling, remembering how pure and innocent he used to make me feel. I had no idea where he lived now or what he was doing, but for some reason I couldn’t even explain, something told me I probably should’ve married him.

  When I pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, I was nervous and my heart was racing. I got out of the car, and my eyes started watering. My cheeks felt like they were being pulled away from my face; my lipstick felt like Chap Stick. It had stopped snowing, but now it was reportedly a whole twenty degrees. I knew I should’ve worn a hat and my down coat, but noooooo, I just had to look cute. By the time I made it to the lobby, the soles of my feet were frozen and my corn was already killing me.

  I got on the elevator with three couples. I decided right then and there that I wasn’t going to let them bother me. Not tonight. If I’m lucky, next year I’ll be one of them. They mumbled a hello, but I said a loud and cheery “Happy New Year!” I was taking off my leather gloves when the doors opened and we were facing a man sitting behind a long table. He was putting money and tickets into a metal box. Lionel didn’t mention anything about having to pay. “How much is it?” I asked the man.

  “For you, sister, twenty dollars.”

  I handed him a twenty and smiled. Then I went to check my coat and walked over to the doorway that led to a huge ballroom. There were balloons and crepe paper everywhere and about two hundred people. I saw the DJ perched on a platform. The music was loud. It sounded like he was playing oldies but goodies. Only a few people were on the dance floor. I stood there and prayed that this wasn’t going to turn out to be one of those over-thirty-five networking parties where folks sit around and make small talk all damn night because they think they’re middle-aged and therefore no longer entitled to get loose. Hell, it was New Year’s Eve.