I saw him first.

Like tears from a school girl, my reasoning is so elementary, but it is so true. I did. I saw him first. Before he even stepped into the club. When he was on his cell phone giving his homeboy directions and we walked past trying to dodge raindrops on an attempt to kick it on a nightcap in Oklahoma City.  I watched him out of the corner of my eye while getting carded with the full intention of checking him fully out from inside.

But, I came up in a game that doesn’t move forward and go after an interest. Instead I usually lay back in the cut throwing up promises and persuasions to God for a brother to notice me, while I shake a groove thang on the floor or whatever trying to catch his eye.  So although, I noticed him a few more times I decided to stay focused and grounded on what I came to do, have a good time with the homegirls. Plus I didn’t have time to deal with stuck-up attitudes, conceited intentions, or jealous girlfriends and by the stereotypical looks on this brother, one of those surely had to be the case.

So it wasn’t half the night danced away until I noticed him again.  This time a few feet away, standing on the dance floor, by himself (finally). Do I have the nerve? Do I? I breathed in hard and that was when my home girl, part of my crew, jumps in front of him to give him a dance he won’t forget. 

And he didn’t because sure enough, like the hands on the clock of time, thirty minutes later I see them exchanging numbers. I lose, she gains. Damn on me and old school Steve Harvey philosphies, she won…I go home empty handed.  I dapp out my girl later on that evening. Giving compliments to the winning team.

“That’s a good look.” I mention to her.

“Who? The DJ..yeah I know.”

“No, dancing dude.”

Pause

“The first one or second?”

“The second.”

“Him?  Oh he is number five on my list.”  She walks off. I am stuck there.

FIVE.  FIVE?  He was number ONE on my list and I have to give it up because he is a number five on hers?  I didn’t even have a list and that brother was the supreme top. AUGH!  My entrée is her to be scraps. That’s some mess and I am dissed out on the sidelines.

See I am a firm believer in the code. I don’t date my girl’s man, ex-man, former potential of a man, or anything.  You keep drama down to a minimum.  Ask my girlfriend’s husband, I BARELY say hello on the phone.  There is an honor amongst thieves and should be one amongst hoochies.  You got to recognize what is important in life and being loyal to the code is one.  

So this loyalty has me burning in my seat.  I mean the code is important, but there is a perfectly good man going to waste as I watch my girl hugged up with someone else.  I really can’t be mad, I mean, it is partly my fault.  I mean, I am loyal to the code but I didn’t really play the game right? I didn’t point out and take dibbs on potential numbers, I didn’t stake claim in the game, I just sat on the sidelines and now after the play has been called, I’m reviewing the rules.

Bad timing. 

Open opportunity. I mean there are do-overs. I learned that cheating in the third grade.  If I didn’t like the outcome, I changed the way it was played. Right? And with that, I find that tall glass of water, my Saharan H2O and begin dancing with him. Nothing in the code about friendly dancing right?  I can do all that and stay in-bounds, no foul called, no flag on the play.  So I danced my tail off, in the middle of mental what ifs, and damn he is fines, and laughed and enjoyed myself. Got information, got name, and got a little friendly…on the friendship tip.  All the reason to be more upset with my sideline pimping. 

And went home, a sore loser, but more with more knowledge.  Its time to get in the game.  Not playing for a starters spot means I get left with the bench and I have dealt with warming up the bench before.  Not a good position. In order to change a situation from being a perpetual what if scenario you got to get in where you fit in and let the chips fly. So I can’t ever let my number one be someone else’s number five.

And that is as official as a referee’s whistle.

But I still saw him first.

Peanut!  Peanut Butter!

Jelly.

Peeeeeaaaanut! Peanut Butter!

Jelly.

That was the childhood song I learned toothless in kindergarten with all the other loud lisping kids.  A tribute to the best sandwich of all time.  This song had me with my own theme dance, because right after screaming out peanut butter I always made sure my little miniature jam would shake with the jelly. 

Toothless, two pieces of bread sloshed together with grape jelly and smooth and creamy peanut butter would smack between my taste buds and life was grand. A grand tradition that followed me everywhere high school, college, and even into my early thirties.  Of course, this sandwich had hit varieties, syrup and peanut butter, strawberry jam, crunchy peanut butter, wheat bread and even toasted wraps.  Don’t matter, in the middle of the night, midst a hunger crunch, I would hum my little tribute song while spreading one the love, making sure to shake my jam with every note.

So when sitting down watching “Biggest Loser” I am studying, half tuned in to the show, living my life like it is golden.  Proud of my new lifestyle, I have to say that I have been great at eating nutritious the whole day.  Cooking my own food (a miracle for independent gadget number one) and staying as natural as possible. I mean at the time of studying I have my bottle of water and an apple. KUDOS!

Well “Biggest Loser” has this temptation challenge where the contestants have to eat snacks and candy in order to find a golden ticket.  While they do this the host is hollering the calorie count of each item they digest.  I decided to listen and tempt myself at the same time, because a sister really has NO intention of going back to that lifestyle (except for peach cobbler—everyone has a weakness). 

Cupcake.  500 calories. (DAMN)

Frosted Doughnut.  290 calories. (Whew, not a biggie)

Pretzel.  350 calories. (Okay, bye Aunt Annie.  Not stressed)

Peanut Butter & Jelly Sandwich.  400 calories. (WHAT THE HELL?)

My whole life has been exposed as a lie.  My beloved peanut butter and jelly sandwich a daggone 400 calories.  I jumped up and had to peer in closer to the television.  Not peanut butter and jelly, right. I wish I was. AUGH!  After closer inspection, I realized I have been killing myself.  Not only was their PB&J was 400 calories, it was spread like white people spread sandwiches.  I mean when I created my stuff, it would be jelly sliding all over the place, peanut butter bunched up and hitting every corner.  I was the Shaft of PB&J, a bad mutha…watchayoself.

My childhood comfort food was a destination for a blubber stomach.  Scabbed knee, Momma dusted it off and gave me a sandwich.  Bad day at school, Momma cut the sandwich into the shape of heart.  Please recognize that the Washington household brought toasted PB&J gingerbread people for the 5^th grade School Holiday Festival.  A family that spreads together stays together. 

Do you know how much of the American dream was conceived around the edges of a PB&J sandwich? How many kids dream of becoming pilots, doctors, teachers, and even presidents?  Not one dreams of clogged arteries, high fat intake, or blood sugar and that is the sandwich that is the bridge towards that downward spiral.  Kind of like your transition drug.  Once you can start taking two or three hits of PB&J, you are hooked for life.  I could cry.

 In fact, the truth of the matter is there are too many habits that we incorporate in the innocence of our youth.  From me making my students pop M&M’s in bribes to be good to sugar laced drinks gulped down with the idea of getting a taste of fruit, we are setting ourselves up to be forever bowing down to the Goddess of Love—Handles. And for me, it started with a tribute song with me shaking my jam and jelly in ode to my homie Peanut Butter. 

I’m going cold turkey.  Forget the pains and the cravings.  Peanut Butter is cut off, no longer a stakeholder in my life.

Cold TURKEY.  Oh should I say….COLD PB&J.  Starting right now….after this last one hit. 

Peanut!  Peanut Butter!

Jelly.

Peeeeeaaaanut! Peanut Butter!

Jelly. R.I.P.