Or sometimes called The Al Bundy Syndrome.
You know the show ‘Married. With
Children?' If you don’t, you have been deeply deprived of great TV. No. Like,
seriously, you have. Well, if you
haven’t. Sucks to be you.
We know his story.
The man who is married and
miserable. Has rat ass kids and a job that he hates.
What he does have though, are his
High School memories of greatness. All the cool shit he did in his youth that he just KNEW would make him awesome as an adult.
But alas. It didn’t.
So, what does he do? He gets
together with his homies once a week and reminisce on said cool shit that
happened 100 years ago. Here are a few shorts, of when THAT shit blows my life to oblivion and in turn, make me want to build a time machine so those of you afflicted with this disease can take yo ass back to your heyday.
*shudder*
Wait. This is how I feel about MEN
with ALBUNDY-ITS aka Al Bundy Syndrome. I have never met a woman that does
this. I only see that on TV.
1999. College days. Get over it. Club U. LAWD!! Were those some good times. Like, EPIC. (Oh shit! I sound like them! *screams*)
After grabbing my usual plate of chicken, green beans and potato salad, it was time to hit the floor. NEVER a bad time with Essence. Amazing.
Intermission. I post up stage right, in the cut. Catch a breath. Two-stepping to the DJ. Feeling my drink. LOL FEELING MY DRINK. Awesome.
A tap on my shoulder. And there
he is. I’ll call him Donnell. I could
tell he was older. Like, mid 30’s maybe. Come to find out, he was 45.
SIGH I’m 21. Yeah. Whatevs.
He taps my shoulder and asks if
he can buy me a drink. (Now, even as a broke student, where free drinks
were/are the epitome of SCORE, I, was not the type. I knew the game of quasi-possession
with the purchase of said drink. Besides, he wasn’t that cute for me to be taking
no drinks from. Ha!)
I decline the drink. He asks me
to dance. I was already dancing, so, why not? *rolls eyes*
We dance.
We
exchange numbers. (My girlfriends say I’m too nice). I leave to go to my group.
He watches me walk away. In ALL of my amazing pancake ass glory. (I embrace it.
Kiss my pancake assery if you don’t.)
He calls me a few days later.
We talk. I’m not really interested. Cuz his voice sounded nasally. Like, he has
a cold or something. (IT ALWAYS SOUNDED LIKE THAT) I was bored. I’m wondering
if he could sense it, cuz he asks me right away if he can take me out. I agree.
I was going home that weekend. No biggie.
He lived in Gaithersburg. I’m from Mo County and I HATE Gaithersburg.
Well, I like RIO, but I don’t really like anything else about it. And probably my
interaction with him makes me hate it even more to this day.
Anyway, we go to dinner. Nothing
spectacular. I’m 21. I’m not choosy. SIGH Throughout dinner, he talks and talks
AND talks about…when he was my age running the streets of DC. At first, it’s
interesting. Until I realize, after more conversations, over time, that THAT
was all he had.
My God.
Donnell shared stories of when he
was a drug dealer. When his Adidas and Sergio Tacchini sweat suits were better
than Rayful’s. How his Gucci shades shined so bright at Go-Go Live (Cap Center, 1987), wasn’t NOBODY gonna be in his way. When he boxed with Sugar Ray and
showed him the serious fade. Shit like that. Again, I am a Mo Co Hunny for life. His involvement in DC history didn’t faze me. I felt like he was busting nuts off of sharing this shit with me. I didn’t care. I don’t care…still.
In fact, I’m gonna stop this
story here. Cuz I’m getting irritated thinking about it and I haven’t talked to
him in years.
After Donnell, I really wanted to
stay away from older men. I guess I couldn’t. I tried.
I will call this next patient,
Shawn. SMH His prognosis was apparent from day 1.
I guess, because I was younger,
maybe, telling me these anecdotes of his life were his way of impressing me.
*rolls eyes ALL the way around* What. Thee fuck. Ever. It wasn’t.
It’s not.
It made me look at him like he was having an early mid-life crisis episode and I am NOT here for it. His thing was High School. He LOVED High School. Said that it is where he came to be.
Oh.
Like, Al Bundy for real, this
fool was all about his Polk High days. SIIIIIIIIIIIGH
How after transferring to a new school he was so popular. Homecoming King this. Smooth Operator that. His car was fast like this. All the girls loved him that. Blah blah blah. Etc. etc. etc.
I choose not to get detailed with
this man either. I’m liable to slip specifics and I don’t have enough in my
bail account yet.
I have many older friends. They
all share pieces of their pasts with me. No big deal. But it does not consume
them like these 2 men did (and there are others, but I think yall are as bored
with this as I am). I mean, WHAT are you doing now? Is there anything new in
your life that is JUST as impressive from 20+ years ago? No? NOTHING?? SMH
Then keep your mouth shut. Cuz you look and sound stupid. Life moves forward. Not backwards. Just like sleep, you can’t play catch-up. Well, not unless you have money SO gatdamn long that drinking out the club or sleeping with every woman that walks or wearing skinny jeans at 50 or…shit, yall get the point.
Money makes fuckery, in my
opinion, sometimes, excusable. *shrug*
Ask Sean Combs. Will Smith.
Again, yall get it.
Anydamnways, I, personally, don’t
like it. I don’t like bragadociousness from centuries ago.
Shit. I don’t like that shit at
all. For anything. It’s just lame. I especially cannot be turned on by Fred Flintstone antics. It just won’t work. Save those things for your kids and grand babies. They will appreciate it. NOT the pair of panties you are trying to ease off.
I’m rude. I will roll my eyes in your face and deflect said discomfort by buying YOU a drink, shaking your hand and walking away. Again, in ALL MY PANCAKE GLORY!
Guess what? I don’t care. I don’t
care. I. DON’T. CARE *does the snake at each period*
I’m 34. My male friends are soon
to or have already hit the age where they start to feel a way about life.
Whatever the hell yall want to call it.
But let me tell yall, women,
unless they are just some bucket head ass broads, do not find comb-overs with
skinny jeans and tales of a lost youth attractive. Take my word for it. Just be
yourself. You will get a lot more play that way. Unless you are married. Then…yall
aren’t my problem or issue.
Homage to Donnell. Here is the
Sergio link. They’ve got a HELLUVA sale going on. Partake.
Reminisce. Or just look DAMN good in classic greatness.
So, yeah. Get it together. Be
humble in your misery or find a hobby. One that will make you feel fulfilled so
that in your newly found glory you can flourish. Greatly.
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