It reminded me of one of my hunnygirls, *Aria. Aria was always in a relationship with her man, and their union slowly slipped into a routine kind of situation. The danger in a relationship becoming routine sometimes is that it leads to one either looking for things  within it to fix or living vicariously through other friends. Lovergirl hears about the problems her friends have with the men in their lives, and thinks about a potential problem she may or may not have with her own boo. That little thing he did last week when he left the dishes dirty in the sink for her to scrub? Yeah, now that is a problem. And the time she told him to wait until she was ready before he...showered her with love and affection? Ok well now it's an issue. So naturally, Aria found herself falling into this trap. She began complaining about her man, intentionally picking their relationship apart. Never mind the fact that he was completely smitten with her. She had a problem with the problems that didn't exist. It wasn't broken, but she cracked it a few times so that she would have something to fix.

We have been trained, through our experiences in failed relationships, to believe that something has be hard and broken in order for it to be real. I liken this notion to a self-harm disorder. Typically, people who have suffered from the effects of said disorder cut or hurt themselves to cope with problems or things beyond their control. Things become easier when they cut. The blood becomes a reminder that there is something more painful than whatever dilemma they face, and so they use it to deal. We tend to think similarly; we start believing that love has to hurt in order to be real. This becomes our coping mechanism. When we deal with things beyond our control in our relationship (sounds weird? I know right!), we tell ourselves that pain is necessary in order for the relationship to be worth it. The pain becomes a reminder that the "love is real." Suddenly, we not only deal, but we deal with it proudly. We say things like, "I'm his ride-or-die...We've been through thick and thin..." Get it?

As a result of this frame of thinking, sometimes we want partners with these great qualities and get caught up in a too good to be true mentality. We think that if this man is too good, then something is wrong and therefore, we have a problem. The woman in the clip initially seemed ungrateful, but she was really hesitant about the kind of love her husband offered. She was waiting for him to mess up, waiting to get hurt. As I thought about it, I actually started feeling bad for shorty. 

We get so into the too good mentality that we don't expect something true blue to happen to us. If he caters to us, loves us without question and shows it freely, we give him the side-eye. We don't give ourselves enough credit to own up to the idea that we deserve someone being good to us. We don't respect ourselves enough to enjoy without looking for something to be broken. We just know that a woman will call claiming to be his wife, or that we'll catch him giving it up to his best friend Cover style in the shower. We are quick to assume that he has some deep secret and we end up inadvertently blaming him for being too "nice." The good guy is then forced to be perceived as the bad guy. Where is the winning in that? 

There is a huge double-standard that exists, and for this one, women are the wrong of the two. We expect men to treat us like royalty because we are good women, but we treat our good men like crap because all they had to offer was happiness. We expect to be honored for being loyal and sticking with our lovers, but we treat men who are the same way like they don't deserve us. 

This is when things get real. We absolutely deserve too good to be true love. We deserve it because we are worth it, regardless of who we used to be or who we aren't. There is nothing wrong with being in a solid, happy relationship. Waiting for the other shoe to drop is detrimental to a quality relationship, because it implies that there is no trust in the idea of the relationship succeeding. We do it to protect our hearts, of course, but we are subconsciously setting things up to get it broken at the same damn time. In order to love successfully, we have to think successfully. This is why pre-nups are a problem for me. In my never-been-married mind, a pre-nup indicates a lack of faith in the union and therefore undermines marriage. It's like saying Just in case, which negates the forever, 'til death do us part portion. But I digress. 

As a girl, I can recall being told repeatedly to make sure nobody ever touched my "nook." My mother would sit me down and warn me sternly to never let someone touch me in a place that made me feel uncomfortable, and the impact those hand-me-down instructions left on my psyche shaped my feelings toward my sexuality. 

No one was supposed to touch my "nook-nook" and if it was in fact touched, I was not being responsible in protecting it. My nook was sacred and I couldn't let anyone violate that special part of me.

When I started "filling out," I became extremely self-conscious. Shirts and sweaters would get tied around my expanding hips and booty, extra-large shirts would camouflage my growing breasts. Masturbation? Please watch your mouth! Sex became this monster, and initially, I didn't want any parts of it. Any.

Then my curiosity became my friend and grew into anxiety, this desire to get my nook-nook touched. I watched my friends sneak off with boyfriends. I overheard them having sex in their rooms while I waited like a watch-guard in the living room. I was a spectator this entire time, my fear of letting my mother down wrapping itself firmly around my pelvis like a chastity belt. Finally, I decided enough was enough. I was going to do it. It seemed fun, careless, and I had yet to be just that. I was young, right? I had my whole life ahead of me to be more responsible. I jumped right on in, but it had its complications.

For one, the light switch became my friend. I didn't want to have sex in the light whatsoever, so I always made sure to turn off the lights. I didn't like the way my body looked. I thought my boo would change his mind. Secondly, when I had finally done it, I was satisfied but full of guilt. I wasn't supposed to let anyone touch my kitty, but I did and I couldn't take any of it back. Third, I confused sex for love. That was my way of communicating with my lover; we talked through rhythm, caressed each other into agreement.

I was taught to avoid sex, and now, I was using it to guide my relationship. This idea, however, isn't too far-fetched when it comes to us brown hunnies.

Since the traumatizing days of slavery, black women have been taught by their families to preserve their sexiness. We have been taught to keep it closed in tight for the special black man who would one day enter our lives and show us what real love is all about. This makes total sense: since we were slaves, hiding our true selves was the only potent method of self-preservation. The master and mistress could have our bodies, but never our minds. When master touched us, we stood silent and allowed our bodies to be used. When mistress, mad about her husband's desire to physically conquer us, beat us and made us breastfeed their young, we stood silent and took it all in. We have been standing silent since then, allowing ourselves to become what Zora Neale Hurston argues is the "mule of the world." We have become mothers and allowed our breasts to sag wearily. We have become wives and allowed our husbands to use our bodies whenever they were in the mood. In the midst of this all, we have lost one thing that makes us who we are: our sexuality. 

How others perceive us is what now shapes our thinking about sexuality. We think a big booty, some jumbo-sized breasts, a few piercings and a lower back tatt makes us sexy. We have forgotten that our sexuality is in our shapes, our eyes, our arms, our imagination. We forgot about the sex poring through our walk, our sassy talk, our juicy lips, our geniune hearts. We don't notice the men who stare simply because of who we are and the aura we emit. This is never to say that we believe we are superior; We know that every woman, regardless of background or race, has some sexy in her. Ours has been buried for so long that It takes forever to bring it out. Why is it important to embrace the beautiful brown sexual creatures we are?

We have a generation of wide-eyed young brown hunnies who are looking to us as an example, a blueprint. Period. If we can't be comfortable in our own skin, how can we teach them to be? Nah, we have to practice our preachings. They look to us, watch how we dance, talk to, and regard our lovers. 

We forget our worth when we fail to really look at our beautiful selves. This leads to us dating and being hurt by idiots and fools. We get so overwhelmed when someone shows the simplest gesture of affection that we throw ourselves all in without any guarantee that it is a two-person deal. Embracing our sexy will allow us to see ourselves for the dimes we are, which helps us to bring it to the potential boo. Once he is aware of the beautiful woman adorning his arm, he won't hesitate to do what it takes to keep her.

We are simply too fine to ignore our sexy!  We are gorgeous, ambitious, spiritual hunnies. We cannot let our potential go to waste! 

I think this was why Foxy was my girl. She embraced her sexy like she was born to do it. She used her beauty and brains to solve every problem (albeit fictional and predictable). She became the face of the black woman at the time: sexy, cocky, smart, sophisticated.