“I’m leaving … I’m packing up and moving out,” a friend of mine called giving the most inauthentic urban stage play style performance I’ve ever experienced outside the walls of the Fox Theatre.
“Girl, quit lying. You don’t even sound like you mean it,” I replied. “Besides, you and Damon have been together for 11 years.”
“Would you just shut up and roll with me on this one,” she said scream-whispering with her hand covering her mouth.
She goes on with a laughable monologue about how tired she is of living like she’s just starting out when they are almost 40 years old. He’s not changing, so she’s going to move back in with her mother until she finds her own place.
“Did you go see ‘Think Like a Man’ this weekend or something?” I say trying to lighten the mood. “Girl, what are you going through?”
According to her, listening to a water cooler conversation and realizing that she was the only one on her shift who had never been in her own home almost made her sick to her stomach. So she’s going to PRETEND to move out, to motivate him to make more money.
She makes good enough wages as a healthcare professional, but her guy doesn’t. So their dual income is more like one and a possible (sorry for the Spades reference). They’ve been together more than ten years. He’s had the same job for nearly twenty. Three years into their relationship she suggested that he get a better job so they could build a life together. It’s been a recurring argument ever since.
He readily contributes what he does make – all but hands over his paycheck every two weeks, truth be told – but he is comfortable with the two bedroom apartment life that they have. Her … not so much.
She feels like she’s being “financially abused” by his unwillingness to grow up and go back to school, learn a trade or whatever it takes to get a career … or at least be able to match her dollar for dollar.
“But you knew he had been working the same job for ten years when you met him,” I said. “And he was 30 then.”
“I thought he would have gotten tired of seeing all of our friends and cousins graduate to homes, better jobs and whatnot and at least tried to step up,” she responded.
He hasn’t.
“But if he didn’t feel that way for ten years and seems to be okay with his station in life, why did you bother getting serious in the first place?”
“Because he doesn’t come with any of that drama,” she replies. “He doesn’t cheat on me. He stays at home and does stuff around the house. If he would get off his [expletive] and make some REAL money everything would be all good.”
Not only does he do stuff for her, he is the “substitute husband (sexual favors not included)” for plenty of the single (and truth be told attached) black females in our circle. He’s helped us move, done electrical work, checked our cars, assembled furniture and other manly duties for more than a few just because we ask. I can’t even count how many times we’ve collectively said, “girl, can Damon … (again, I feel I must reiterate, no sexual services included)?”
“Well why don’t you get a job to make more money,” I ask her. “You obviously don’t make what it takes to live how you want either if you are relying on his potential income to subsidize your ideal lifestyle.”
I mean honestly. She had to know that after six years into their relationship (and 18 years on his job in the food service business … not minimum wage, but not far from it) that he has every intention of drawing pension from that job. He was in his 30s when they started dating and had this job since he graduated.
“Whatever, girl,” she said. “I see you are taking his side – probably because you don’t wanna use your little personal handyman.”
Was it that obvious? I guess so.
