I certainly wasn’t going to let anyone know I thought I was good enough to be someone’s girlfriend. Why? So that everyone could tell me that I wasn’t? If I admitted to myself that I liked some dude, I’d immediately figure he was out of my league; and even though I was fun and cute and essentially a good person, in my mind the guy would be way cuter. After all, if I said, “Yes, I’ll go out with you” to some guy, all he’d have to say was “EWW! Hell, no! I was joking.” Everyone would laugh, and furthermore, they’d know that I liked that boy. That I could have those kinds of feelings. Love feelings.
“Love feelings”? What am I? A robot from a future where love has been outlawed? What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I communicate intelligently about love? I’m a human being. I’m comfortable talking about pain. I’m comfortable talking about self-love. But the concept of romantic love feels weird and kind of foreign in my brain. I guess I’m figuring out that I wasn’t just afraid of relationships as a child but that I’m still afraid of them as an adult.
I’m still pretty boy crazy. My mom tells me to call them “men,” but that seems too grown-up a word, and frankly, I’m not there yet. But to clarify, when I say “boys,” I definitely mean age twenty-five or older. The boys I like now are less likely to throw a chair. They’re producers, writers, directors, and sound engineers. They’re artists. They have grown-up jobs and lives. They’re kind of dorky and know a lot about specific subjects like film, the Civil War, Renaissance art, Africa, or how batteries work. See? I’ve grown up some! The boys I like now are my friends. We hang out and go to dinner or get drinks. We’ll be at dinner, and I’ll look at my friend and realize that this guy’s a legit catch. He’s handsome, nice, smart, polite, funny . . . I KNOW THE PERFECT GIRL TO SET HIM UP WITH. And then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll set my friend up with a girlfriend of mine who I think can appreciate a guy like him. I’ll give the perfect guy away. I swear I’m not even conscious of what I’m doing when I’m doing it. It’s like I think to myself, This guy’s a keeper but not for you. Still, you shouldn’t let him go to waste! I guess I still think the guy is out of my league.
Honestly, let’s talk leagues for a second. I swear, nothing has pushed my life off track like becoming an actress. Before that, I had my league perfectly figured out. I was going to marry a cabdriver, because my league included cabbies, sanitation workers, security guards, and maybe grocery-store managers. Now that I’m a Hollywood actress, my league is all messed up! I don’t have to date only cabbies anymore, but I’m pretty sure I can’t date the Liam Hemsworths and Michael B. Jordans, either. Maybe I can date a high school teacher or something? I don’t know.
On one of my ask-Mom-personal-questions days, I called her and grilled her about the day she became Mrs. Sidibe.
“Is this gonna get me arrested?” she asked.
“I think there are probably statutes of limitation on immigration fraud from thirty-seven years ago. I think you’re good. You’re in the clear.”
“Check before you publish this! I don’t want to go to prison.”
“Mom, y’all stayed married for like ten years, and you have two adult children now. I don’t think it’s fraud anymore.”
“CHECK!”
“Okay, I’ll check,” I lied. She crazy. “Do you remember what you were wearing?”
“Nope.” We both laughed.
“Did you have rings?”
“Nope.”
“What’d you do after you got married?”
“He went back to his apartment and I went back to mine.”
That’s it. That’s the tradition I have to follow. No flowers, no toasts. No party even. Mom didn’t tell her parents about the marriage until nearly a year later when she was about to go to Africa with Dad. She introduced him to her parents so they could see he was a nice man.
Mom has told me before that she grew to care for my dad. But now I wanted it straight.
“Had you fallen in love with Dad?”
“No.”
Long pause. Not because I was surprised, but because I could relate. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love.
“Did you dream of what your wedding would be like as a kid?” I asked.
“No. Not really. My mother told me I’d never get married cuz I was fat. I was a little big girl, and you know, men didn’t really like that then.” (As if they love that shit today.) “So I didn’t want to get married because I was told I’d never get married anyway. So I said, ‘That’s okay.’ I had a voice. I was fine. I didn’t dream about a wedding and a big gown . . . walking down the aisle.”
There. There’s my family tradition. Maybe if she had known that love and marriage weren’t any less an option for her than anyone else, my mom could’ve taught that to me. But she didn’t, because she wasn’t taught that, and now neither of us know it. In a slight variation of what her mother told her—that no man would marry her until she lost weight—Mom told me that I would have to settle for a man I didn’t love if I didn’t lose weight. But I’ve already been through a marriage of settlement. Hers. I’d rather not do it again.