A few weekends ago, you might recall The Great Bloody Nose debacle of 2011, starring Shyneesha—same star of The Great Slumber Party debacle of 2010.
Well, needless to say, after the GBN 2011, I needed to keep my distance from Shyneesha. As bad as it sounds, I was pissed at her. I felt like what I did for her went completely unnoticed, if not deserved. I didn’t mention it in my previous entry, but while we were waiting in the triage for her nose to quit bleeding, she was on the phone with her family members and her married boyfriend just saying, “Oh no, when I get ot of here I will just go take a nap at Lucky’s.”
Umm…no you will not you ungrateful bitch.
So anyway, the week after that, at work, I pretty much avoided her as much as possible. A few of my coworkers heard about the drama and asked me what happened—to which I tried to be as polite as possible. Most of them reassured me by simply asking, “where was her family?”
After a weekend of less-drama, I warmed myself up to the idea of at least talking to her some at the office (do NOT mistake “talking” for me agreeing to hang out with her, because that is surely not the case).
Our first encounter was less than pleasant. I was wearing a pair of earrings I got from Nicole and I’s garage sale. They used to be Nicole’s and super cute (bronze leaf-life with tiny spearhead dangles). As soon as Shyneesha saw me wearing them, she said, “I like those earrings! I need to wear them Saturday night.”
I slowly backed away and went to my desk.
Later, I shared my frustration with Gizzy (as I often do) and she pointed something out to me that I really never thought of—race. Between the black people Gizzy and I have known, they’ve all felt some sort of undeserved entitlement.
Of course, I shouldn’t make sweeping generalizations, but it’s just a thought.
Last week, I started to notice every time I did talk to Shyneesha, she was informing me on how much weight she’d lost since the last time we’d talked. You see, she’d gotten back on a diet plan (complete with weight loss pills and no exercise plan) and I guess she was pretty excited over the water weight she’d lost.
She kept telling me that she just forced herself to eat, although she “had no appetite.” And, now she lost 15 pounds as opposed to yesterday’s 12, etc. It was annoying and sort of weird. But it got weirder.
She had just forced herself to eat some oatmeal, when she was bragging to me about how baggy her pants were after all the weight she lost. She said she was currently a size 12, and her goal was to get down to a size 9.
Then she uttered words I never imagined I would hear:
“I haven’t been that tiny since high school. It’s going to be so fun to be small, like YOU. I’m going to go into your closet and be like, ‘Lucky! Can I wear THIS!?'”
Now, I’ve never been one to obsess over my weight too much. I try to eat healthy, so I don’t have to workout. However, if I’m feeling a little chubby (I don’t own a scale), I just lay off the fast food for awhile, but I still get into my bikini.
However, I’ve never been mistaken for a size 9. I’m a 2.
I slowly backed away from Shyneesha’s desk and found the first coworker I could—”am I a size 9?” I pleaded while on my knees, hands clasped.
“No!” he replied. “Obviously she doesn’t understand sizes.”
But my ego had been shot. Didn’t she understand girl code? We just DON’T talk about each other’s sizes. Not to mention the fact that she assumed it was fine to just waltz into my closet and borrowed my clothes—NEVER. GOING. TO. HAPPEN.
The whole scenario just bothered me. I have friends (ahem, Gizzy and Buttons) whom I’ve known for years and never shared clothes with. Call me a bitch, call me selfish, whatever, that’s just not how I am.
It’s safe to say, I’ve learned my lesson with her—even though it took me quite awhile. But don’t worry, it doesn’t end on a bad note.
A few days later, my office signed up to eat at a charity luncheon. All week I’d heard about how excited she was to eat the food, as we’d seen the menu beforehand: chicken, rice pilaf, veggies, roll, and cake. Pretty tasty!
But when Friday came, of course, it was almost as if she was bragging about how much she WASN’T going to eat because she just “had no appetite.” I, on the other hand, was ready to dig into that charity case.
So, we sit down at the lunch and I see Shyneesha across the way. She scarfed down her entire plate and dessert in under 7 minutes. While I, the so-called size 9, happily nibbled on my chicken.
“Oh man, I’m so full. I’m not going to eat for the rest of the day,” she said.
Sure you ain’t. Eat my size 2 ass, bitch!