It wasn’t that I was 100% opposed to giving him a chance; I just knew how dangerous it was to do so.
From a distance, he looked like a great fit: striking hazel eyes, longish sandy brown hair made blond by the sun. A mix of surfer and hipster–two fairly fair-skinned fashion choices. An address in The Hills and a family home in Los Gatos – a delightfully homogeneous beach community in Northern California.
While I am not on the prowl in particular, I am also not opposed to the attention of the right young man…especially if he comes with the above characteristics.
But not, however, if he also exhibits the following ones.
Exhibit A: This was how he introduced himself to me: “Yo, not to clown you or anything, but why you kickin’ it in line by yourself?” Broken English with Ebonic tendencies. Hmmmm. But, I thought, it was possible that I could have misheard him, so I talked to him further to fully ascertain his linguistic leanings.
Exhibit B: He was a hip hop dance instructor…for children! How could I tacitly condone his dangerous indoctrination of youth by continuing the conversation.
But he bought me a drink, so I was willing to give him one more try.
That is, until he presented me with:
Exhibit C: He said he was going to grab a snack at Popeye’s….And he asked me if I wanted anything.
Now sure, we had another hour before we were going to be let into the theater.
And sure, my stomach was growling loud enough to be heard for miles.
And sure, Popeye’s was the only food within walking distance.
But c’mon! A girl has to have her standards. One tiny misstep and years of repression will be ruined.
I knew he wasn’t all bad, though. So I introduced him to my (white, natch) friend Analise. She has dreds. And Soujaboy on her iPod.