Yes, the Streets are calling us. Everyone is getting vaccinated. The CDC put out their 115th guideline and told us if we’re vaccinated, we can throw away our masks.
I get all that.
But here’s the thing, I THINK I miss the Day Parties. I THINK I miss the drunk Waffle House All Star Specials. I THINK I miss the Happy Hours at popular lounges with my fellow black professionals that would occasionally turn into a club. I THINK I miss the loud trap music, filling my eardrums with “I sell a lot of drugs and get a lot of bad b*tches” lyrics over a catchy beat. I THINK I miss all that.
But I really don’t.
And it’s not because I think I’m better than that, or I’ve reached this level in life where I’m above that. Nah. It’s because I think I’m washed. Now, I’m not saying I’m super washed. Like, I’m still taking trips. I’m still taking vacations. I’m still doing hoodrat shit with my babymomma and friends. I’m still doing all that, but only to a certain degree, if that makes sense.
Let me put it like this.
When Lupin, Season 2 comes on Netflix, right? You know, the Black French Oceans 11 show, where this n*gga is essentially a magician mastermind criminal with a good heart. When it premiers, and one of my friends texts me, saying, “Yo! We gotta table at ____ and we getting 3 bottles! Where you at!?” I will look dead at that text; walk downstairs; walk past the refrigerator/freezer into the garage; walk to the deep freezer; open it, pull out the wokest Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream I can find; walk back up stairs; let it sit there for about a solid 5 minutes so it can soften up (just a tad); grab my spoon; open my ice cream; press play and text my friend back the next day saying, “Man, my bad about yesterday. I was at the park with the kids and didn’t see the text until it was too late. I’ll catch you next time doe!”
THAT’S how washed I am.
I am that washed. So, whatever degree of washed that is, that’s me. Some of this has to do with age. Some of this has to do with these mf kids. Some of this has to do with the quarantine. This quarantine really brought out the introvert in me. I’ve always been a slight introvert, but could turn into an extrovert when needed, but at this point, I’m like 63% introvert. I’m more introvert than ever before, and the peace of mind that comes with it is absolute fucking bliss. I have no reason to believe that spurts of extrovert-ness (I just made up a word, fuck it) this summer will be fun. I can’t wait for my extrovert to appear with each passing drink. But I also know that my extrovert will need a 3-5 business day recovery time after appearing.
Damn. My recovery time ain’t even Amazon Prime anymore.
Leslie McLemore writes about a lot of different shit for Black With No Chaser. He is also the Takeaway Kang, the greatest baby father to the dopest babymomma, and the father of two beautiful girls, one of which gets on every nerve he has. The other one is sweet…sometimes. So, you know, balance. Sort of.
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