It’s funny how as a child you have this vision or dream for your life. You’re confident that one day you’ll become the Doctor, Lawyer, Scientist, or Writer that you’ve spent hours pretending to be. Yet it never crosses your mind that your dream may never happen or at the very least, in the way you intended. I had visions of being a highly successful writer, wife, and mother, in that order. I wanted the Claire Huxtable life; a bomb ass career, an equally successful husband, and a house full of children that loved and feared us both.

I spent most of my childhood planning my future. By middle school, I had my entire wedding planned. My color scheme would be the perfect shades of lilac, plum, and silver. The maid of honor and bridesmaids dresses were different variations of the same dress and would compliment each of their body types. My dream wedding dress was an off white couture mermaid style design with just the right balance of lace, satin, and organza. I would change my future children names to play off each of my high school boyfriends. And by my senior year in college, after I’ve scared off every eligible man with all of my wedding planning and commitment talk, I faced the harsh truth that maybe marriage may not be in the cards for me. Yeah, that was me, January Hawthorne, miss #cantwaittobemarried and #somebodysfuturemisses.

Marriage is a very very big deal in my family. To the Hawthorne women, marriage is sacred, a right of passage especially because it was once considered illegal for Black men and women to say I do. It’s viewed as a lifelong commitment that affords an individual status and financial security. To them, if a woman isn’t married by the time she’s thirty, she’s damaged goods and pretty much an outcast. We’ve traced successful marriages in our family back almost six generations. Up until twenty years ago, they’ve all remained married to the same person and never divorced.

My mother’s parents, grandma ‘Flo and grandaddy Jack just celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary. Aunt Meg, grandma Flo’s sister, has been married twice. Her first husband died while serving our country. She met Uncle Jack (no relation to Grandpa Jack) two days after her late husband's funeral. They married a few months later and are still together to this day. My aunt Rese has been married four times. She’s married all three of her baby fathers, the 2nd one twice. My cousin Towanda, we call her Twiggy, is engaged to her girlfriend but was married to her high school sweetheart for several years before coming to terms with her sexuality. Although my mother Carol didn’t marry my father, she married my step dad Rufus, and they’ve been together for as long as I can remember. Then there’s my younger sister, Yolanda, who married her husband at 17 when they found out they were pregnant with my nephew/godson. Now they’re expecting their second child. So that leaves me, unmarried but in a committed and fulfilling relationship of eight wonderful years with my man Anderson Johnson.

Anderson is my ideal, my soul mate; I couldn’t have asked for a better life partner. It’s rare that black women meet black men who check off every box on her checklist. He’s intelligent, well educated, employed and comes from a two-parent household. His beautiful caramel skin and tall, muscular physique compliment my petite chestnut curvy body like a decadent dessert. His charm and wit attract attention whenever he enters a room. He’s classy with a touch of hood and the best dressed heterosexual man alive.

We met at a Vote or Die day party in 2008. I was standing at the bar waiting on my girlfriends to arrive when one of Anderson’s friends approached me. He hit me with a “Hey baby, you look thirsty, let me buy you a drink.” Really! Stunned and amazed at his corny ass pick up line, I chuckled and politely declined his offer. I guess his ego was as fragile as his height because I heard his lil’ ass murmur something about bitches and hoes.

“Excuse me,” I said as I stepped down from the bar stool.

Now, getting loud in public isn’t really my thing. I was raised to handle misunderstandings, as my mother would put it, in a more ladylike fashion.

“Speaking at a tone that could be perceived as yelling will never resolve anything,” she would say. In other words, leave the ratchet at home. However, I have never ever, been called a bitch or a hoe to my face, ever. And I wasn’t going to let this little nymph call me out my name.

I followed his smidget ass over to the corner where Anderson and his boys were standing. Before he opened his mouth, I grabbed him by the collar, yank his lil’ ass around and told him that I didn’t appreciate him calling me a bitch. His boys busted into laughter as we continued exchanging words. The DJ, who happened to be my co-worker called for security. But that didn’t stop us, he kept on going, and I didn’t back down. Yes, I came from a great home and had a good ole’ southern upbringing, but I will not tolerate being disrespected. After a few minutes of wasted energy on the pint-size Curtis Jackson, I said what I said and turned away. Everything went south when the crunchy Napoleon pushed me. Before I knew it, I snapped and slapped him across the face with my Michael Kors clutch. The cops were called, and we were escorted out of the venue.

I noticed Anderson walking towards me while giving my version of what happened to the police. I was let go with a warning and was banned from the lounge for a year. Embarrassed and infuriated, I took my citation and walked away.

“Excuse me, are you okay?”

I answered no without knowing who I was responding to until he jolted in front of me.

“What can I do for you?”, I said with major attitude.

“My name is Anderson, Savon’s friend,” He said as he extended his ring less hand. But I was too annoyed and refused to shake it.

“Who the hell is Savon?” I scoffed.

“The guy you had the altercation with,” he replied showing all his bright teeth.

“Okay.”

“I wanted to make sure that you were okay and apologize for his actions,” he said with a very serious and concerned look on his face.

“I’m good, thanks.” I rolled my eyes and walked around him.

“Hold up, where are you going?”

“Home.” I shouted without looking back.

“Do you mind if I walk with you? You shouldn’t be out here walking alone.”

“I walk alone all the damn time, been doing it for years.”

“I’m sure you’re an expert at it, but it’s getting dark, and I can’t leave you walking these streets by yourself.”

I was soooo irritated, and his kindness was adding more fuel to the fire instead of putting it out.

“Look. While appreciate you pretending to care about my well being, I’m really not in the mood for company. I just want to find my car and go the hell home.” I snatched my body around and began walking harder and faster, hoping he’d get the clue. But of course, he didn’t. His persistent ass continued following me like a lost puppy.

“Miss...” He shouted from behind.

“What?!” I stopped and shouted back at him.

“I’m not this crazy random dude pretending to care. I couldn’t live with myself If I wake up tomorrow and found out that something awful happened to you. So whether you like it or not, I’m gonna walk you to your car.”

“Ugh!. Fine.” I said, “Just don’t talk to me.”

“Whatever you say.”

He followed me a few blocks until we found the dimly lit lot where my car was parked.

“Okay, I made it, you can go now.”

“I’m gonna make sure you make it to your car if you don’t mind.”

I reached inside my clutch for my keys and pepper spray in case he tried anything. I walked up to a random car to throw him off. I stood at the door, fiddling with my keys, hoping that was enough to make him leave. “Thank you again for walking me to my car.” I shouted over my shoulder.

He didn’t move. He just stood there grinning like a damn Cheshire cat, like he knew that I was playing him.

“Are you going to get in?” He said while moving closer.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I went for the pepper spray. I eased up after other people began entering the lot. I had one hand on the door handle and the other holding on to the pepper spray inside my clutch. We stood there in silence, like a standoff in one of those old Westerns my granddaddy watches. I wanted him to turn around and go back to the club and leave me the hell alone. I couldn’t risk him getting my license plate number and tracking me down. I guess I watch too much of the ID channel. As bad as I wanted to go home, I stood right there, up against the car, and triggered the alarm. He chuckled.

“What so funny?”

“I knew this wasn’t your car,” what an ass!

At that point, I became even more annoyed. I stumbled over the uneven mixture of concrete and mud and made my way over to my car. And yes, he followed me. He asked for my name as he opened my car door. I didn’t want any reminder of that day, whatsoever. Giving him my name, exchanging contact information wasn’t on the agenda, so I didn’t respond. But his diligent, cocky ass wouldn’t let go of the door until I answered. He reached in his back pocket and handed me one of his business cards. I tossed it into the passenger seat as I drove off.

The next day I received a phone call from what I believed was the Atlanta Police Department, it turned out to be Anderson. My suspicions of him were right. He had a friend pull my information from my license plate. Clever muthafucka! I had to give it to him, his persistence was refreshing. He put a lot of effort into locating me, something no one has ever done before. After our first conversation, I was hooked. We talked about everything from politics to personal beliefs, family, career, goals, etc. We were so in sync, like some freaky Friday type of shit! We’ve been inseparable since. We toured Europe, Japan, gone on missionary trips to Africa, after a year of dating we moved in together. Not really what I wanted but I didn’t want to lose him, so I went with it. I naturally assumed that we’d get married. Although we never really talked about it, I figured Andy would ask me when he got ready. I didn’t want to push him away like I did all of those other guys in college. So I gave him time and space to figure it all out. But that was almost nine years ago.

So by now, you’re probably thinking that something must be wrong with me. Um, no! I’m a good catch. I’m educated, successful, I cook, clean make good money, and I put it down….why do you think he stayed around for this long. And no, Andy has never stepped out on me...well there was this one time when his ex-girlfriend from college showed up with a whole six-year-old talking about Andy was the father, he considered being with her for the child’s sake. But after the paternity determined that he was not the father, we never had any issues again. Neither of us has any outside children, or any weird shit like that going on. We both have successful careers and are making decent money; he works in sports management, I’m a Human Resources manager. We’re everyone’s #relationship goals. But I am beginning to get that itch. And my family won’t let up off me with “January, when are you and Anderson going to get married?”. Or “When are you gonna give that man some babies? Y’all ain’t gotta be married to have children together.” I don’t know, I guess I’m not a modernized as I thought. I’m still waiting for him to pop the question.

“She’ll take it!”. My cousin Twiggy is as opinionated as she is confident. I guess she needs to be, being a defense attorney. But, my love life isn’t on trial, and we’re not in a court of law but a high-end jewelry store. As Twiggs maid of honor, I decided to clear my schedule to go along and pick up she and her bride’s wedding rings. Instead of focusing on her big day, she was too focused on my situation. She insisted that I look at a few wedding rings while we waited for hers. I found an 18k white gold black ceramic 66 diamond Cartier love ring, it was perfect for Anderson. I’m still not sure that this is the right move.

“I don’t see what the damn deal is, just ask him. You love him don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then cut this prehistoric, gender role bias shit out and ask him.”

If it only were that simple. Now asking him isn’t the problem, I’m just not sure how or when to pop the question. It’s not like borrowing money or asking him to run an errand for me. For real, how do you ask a man to spend the rest of his life with you without scaring him off?

Forever and A Damn Day

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Forever and A Damn Day

Forever and a Damn Day Part II

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