Take Her Man
“And if it doesn’t work—if this whole shim sham doesn’t work, what will Troy do?” Tamia asked when Tasha concluded the outline with one long exhale. She turned on the car and drove away from Justin’s. “What will Troy have then, other than a broken heart?”
“Then Ms. Lovesong will look better because she’s had a makeover, she’ll have met a new guy because she’s been dating other people, and she will have had a chance to really tell Julian how she felt about him without being angry.” Tasha reached over the seat and gave me a hug just as Tamia pulled up in front of the lot where I’d parked my car.
I kissed her on the cheek and took a short sigh of relief. I had felt so powerless shuffling out of the restaurant like I had done something wrong. But now I felt like I had something to do with my pain, the big swelling sea of doubt that was raging in my stomach. I wasn’t gonna waste another minute crying and being angry about Miata. I was gonna get my man back and live my happily ever after. The Take Her Man Plan was on.
“Wait, Troy,” Tasha called as I turned to walk toward my car. “Just remember one last thing: The plan must be put into action in the exact order it is given. If Julian truly loves you, and not Miata, he’ll come back to you. It may take three days…it might take three months, but he’ll come back…. Just be ready and look marvelous, Ms. Lovesong.” She poked her head out of the back window. “In the meantime, don’t stop living. Move on with your life. Join a gym. Take a knitting class. Do something you’ve always wanted to do. But be ready to answer the phone when Julian calls…just not on the first ring.” She blew me a kiss, Tamia tooted the horn, and they were off.
The Take Her Man Plan: I Declare War!
So your man walked out the door and into someone else’s arms. He said it’s over and you just can’t understand why. You’re sure he loves you and that he’s “the one.” Don’t spend money calling a psychic to see what the stars have in store for you; change your own stars by taking back what was yours in the first place. Follow these Six Steps to Success and he’ll come crawling back in no time.
Six Steps to Success
1. Light as a Feather (Not Stiff as a Board)—Let go of the past and move forward with an open heart. Hold no grudges against your dearly departed and assure him that you are his friend. Be just as light and easy as you were when the two of you first met. Don’t expect anything, stop asking those annoying relationship questions, and stop, Stop planning. Be easy and breezy, because this most likely is how you got him in the first place. Finally, no matter how much you want to, don’t bring “her” up. This will only exacerbate the situation and put a damper on things. Just be patient. It’s your time with him. Do you, and remember the witch will be gone soon.
2. Change, Change, Change—Usually when men cheat it’s a sign of boredom in their current relationship. Men are simple creatures and the slightest sign of regularity turns them into panting puppies begging to roam free. This is probably why your man began to stray initially. Face it, since you’ve been spending all of your time on him and too little on yourself, you’re stuck in a beauty-less rut you never intended to get into in the first place. Since you two started dating, you’ve probably put on a few pounds from all of the free late-night dinners and breakfasts in bed. Your hair color is grown out and your gray is showing because you haven’t had time to make it to the salon between your dates with Prince Charming. Your once perfect “single girl with lots of time on her hands” manicure has now turned into a botched home job because you’ve run out of time to visit the nail shop. And worst of all, you probably keep wearing the same outfits because you’ve already decided that you know what he likes. This old house is falling apart and in need of total renovation. Get a new look to keep your old man guessing. Get a new hairstyle, renew your contract at the gym, keep those nails fresh, purchase a couple new pieces for your wardrobe, and buy a new shade of lipstick. It’s a new you for you…the only bonus is that he’ll surely come sniffing. That’s what got his attention in the first place—what he saw visually. If you can turn his head once, you can turn it twice more.
3. Say You, Say Me—After you’ve adapted to your new look and flaunted it before his dancing eyes, it’s time to remember what things about your personality attracted your ex to you in the first place. Were you funny? Did you read him poetry? Did you laugh at all of his jokes? Whatever it was, remember it and remind him of those qualities by being yourself. Remind him of the cool you and the good times you two used to spend together—the camping trip in the Rocky Mountains, the fishing trip with his parents, the time you two had sex in a public restroom. This will make him begin to dwell on the past and remember that the grass was actually greener on your side…Don’t be surprised if you get a few late-night calls during this stage. He may even try to come back to you, but remember that every s
tep of the plan must be completed to make sure he won’t go roaming again. He’s got to work to get you back.
4. Fellas, There’s a Jealous Boy in This Town—Nothing gets a man’s blood boiling like plain old jealousy. Fight fire with fire by making sure your old beau sees you with a new one. And it can’t just be any new beau—this man must be fine and obvious competition. And if history repeats itself, as it always has with just about every man since the beginning of time, he’ll react by attacking the situation head-on. He’ll want to know who the guy is and where he came from. Out of anger and confusion, he may try to accuse you of sneaking around when you two were together. Don’t reveal anything. Be vague with your answers. If he asks what you two have been up to, say, ‘A little bit of this and a little bit of that,’ and then rush off of the phone, because your Chinese food is at the door. Now, the hardest part of this step is that his jealousy may lead him to try to get you back. And this doesn’t mean he’ll try to get you back mentally. He’ll try to get you back physically. Sorry to say it, but it’s kind of like how dogs pee on trees to mark their territory. If one dog even senses that another dog has urinated on his tree, he’ll try to spray his special scent all over it. Don’t be offended, of course. No one’s saying you’re a tree and no one’s peeing on you. It’s just a man law of nature. So, he’ll try to get you into the sack. But be strong. Cross your legs…um, fingers.
5. The Damsel in Distress: Oops, I Did it Again—(This is a tricky one for all those independent sisters.) Though they try to act like they don’t, men love to feel needed. You can be the smartest woman alive, but don’t touch the damn barbecue grill, mama. He may admire you for this and initially be attracted to you because of your independence. But the day he realizes you don’t need him, he’s about as gone as last month’s period. Stop trying to take on the world all by yourself, sister. Create a random act of need…a kitten in a tree, you fell while bicycling, your apartment is being painted and you need a place to stay. Then ask for his help. And when the moment comes, simply thank him for being there for you during your time of need. Say, ‘I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.’ But the thing is, don’t appear too needy. Men hate needy women. So don’t turn on the waterworks, and whatever you do, don’t beg him for anything. Just allow his help to be at his suggestion—not yours. Remember, if you were successful with the first four steps, he’s dying to be with you. Think of him as a woman with a credit card (with no limit) and you’re a pair of suede Gucci boots…it’s about to go down. He will acquiesce, and if things go as planned, you will wake up the next morning by his side…leading to step…
6. Let Your Feelings Be Known—Now it’s time to open up and let him know how you feel about him. Tell him how much you love him and how much it hurt when he left. Tell him how it feels when he holds you, how he makes you smile when you think you’ve run out of reasons. Don’t be pushy or suggest that you get back together. That’s his job after he hears you out. Don’t worry…he will. Remember, by this point, he’s panting, begging to be with you. His mind is telling him so many things and when you express your feelings in a noncommittal way, he’ll jump right in to claim his prize. That’s you.
Jesus Loves Harlem, Too
I fell in love with the golf course at my parents’ country club when I was still too small to realize just how big the world was. I’d traveled to many foreign places and seen many strange things by the time I was ten, but as I sat in my father’s golf cart, watching him play round after round on those big rolling greens that seemed to be continuously manicured, everything else seemed sad, dull, flat, and gray in comparison. I never really understood the game Daddy was playing with his friends, but I adored looking at the tall hills that seemed to stretch on and on until forever, the pretty pink flowers that bloomed in the spring, and the trees that hung strategically to provide us with shade.
While there were a few very rotten apples in the mostly white bunch, the people there were friendly. My dad’s friends would give me chocolates and their wives doted on me all afternoon. “I’d die for this olive-colored skin. It’s so exotic how it tans so beautifully in the sun. You look like Liz Taylor in Cleopatra,” one woman said to me, pinching my cheek with her glittery, diamond-clad fingers when I was twelve. My mother was furious when I returned home, bragging about what I took for kind words. She told me that the next time one of the club house women said such a thing, I should tell them that both Cleopatra and I were black. I didn’t understand this statement then. It sounded like more of my mother’s anger coming out. But later I’d learn that Liz Taylor was a white woman, playing a black woman in what my mother called “black face.” The more I learned about my family history of women pretending to be something they weren’t, the more I understood why my mother wanted me to have nothing to do with such a comparison. But I let that go. As a young girl, the doting still felt good, and being with my father felt even better. Daddy usually would rush over and beg for more time to play. “It’ll only be a little while longer, T.H.,” he’d assure me, using my first initials—Troy Helene. He’d pat me on the head and say he knew I was tired of being at the golf course with “old Dad,” but he was wrong about me being tired of the golf course and, more important, about being with him.
I loved being on the golf course with my father. I loved it mostly because of how he was when we were there. Daddy smiled, laughed, and told jokes with the other guys when he played golf. He seemed so happy, so in control, and at peace with every terrain we encountered in the little cart. We talked about school, my friends, and even all of the boyfriends he intended to make ex-boyfriends. He asked about my dreams, my goals, and everything I wanted out of life, and he listened as I listed each one as they came to me, never laughing when I changed my mind along the way. Together we’d plan for my future, laugh at old stories he told me about growing up in Harlem, and just relax in the New York heat.
Those comforting memories led me to ask my father to meet me at the country club the morning after the Justin’s debacle. After all the drama I’d been through the night before, I just wanted to feel safe and at peace, sit in a tiny golf cart, and daydream the day away as my daddy played another round like nothing had ever happened to change my world. I didn’t realize how much seeing Julian with Miata had affected me until I got home and was sitting in my apartment all by myself. Lying in bed, I prayed that Julian would just show up and say everything that had happened was just some big joke. But he never came, and even after one Ambien, I didn’t sleep a wink. I just threw on an old Seal CD and stared out of my bedroom window watching the ceaseless downtown Chelsea traffic. When the sun came up and Pookie Po came running to get me for his morning walk, I knew just what I had to do to find a way out of my funk. I called my daddy and told him about Julian after making him promise not to breathe a single word of disaster to my mother—the last thing I needed was her overreacting. He was cool as usual, insisting that I meet him at the country club before I even made a suggestion.
“T.H.!” Daddy said, stepping out of his car in front of the clubhouse where we’d agreed to meet up. He handed the valet his key and grinned at me just enough to make everyone around us imagine how handsome he must have been when he was a young man. “I’m so glad you came out here to meet me,” he went on. “I don’t get to see you much now with you being a law school big shot and everything.”
“Oh stop it, Daddy,” I said, laughing. “I’m never too busy for you.”
My father had beamed when I mentioned during my sophomore year that I was considering law school. Between my mother, Nana Rue, and Grandma Lucy, I’ll admit that I was pretty spoiled by the time I left my parents’ house for college. While my mother tried her best to keep me “independent and strong,” you can’t help but be a bit corrupt growing up in a penthouse on the Upper West Side. Other kids grew up begging their parents to buy them fancy clothes and leather sneakers, but most of my wardrobe came free from the studios of designers trying to get in good with my father’s mother, Nana Rue—a
New York stage actress. So, from RL to Burberry, I wore it—and well, might I add. I seldom had to want or wish for anything other than a break from playing dress up in all the stuff that seemed to magically appear in my bedroom—sometimes despite my mother’s best efforts. I was a bona fide budding brat. However, all that changed when I arrived at Howard and was forced—via my mother—to live in the dorms my first two years.
There I met people who had to bust their behinds just to stay in school. My first roommate worked two part-time jobs just to pay her tuition. LaKeisha was from St. Louis, and one night she told me that she would either be dead or on her way to her deathbed if she’d stayed there. She showed me these cuts she had on her arms from joining a gang when she was just ten years old. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I guess in my ignorance I just assumed that stuff didn’t really happen to people.
My relationship with LaKeisha wasn’t exactly grand after she told me about her past. Because of my disbelief, I kept bringing it up and she must’ve grown tired of my constant quizzing, because she cursed me out. “You’re a silly bitch,” she said to me one day in the cafeteria after I asked her to show another girl the cuts on her arms. “My life ain’t no damn after-school special. I told you about it because I trusted you. So much for that shit, white girl.” She looked completely violated that I’d brought it up and didn’t speak to me for weeks. When I came back from Christmas break, my dorm director said LaKeisha had switched dorms.
I felt like a complete asshole, but it was a lesson I needed to learn. My circle was small until I went to Howard. It was composed of a select group of black Jack and Jill kids and white classmates from school. All privileged, all far from harm’s way. We were basically cookie-cutter kids who’d had the world promised to us, or so our parents wanted us to believe.
I know it sounds corny but after I tried unsuccessfully to contact LaKeisha several times to apologize for my insensitivity, I decided that I needed to do something about the information she’d given me. It wasn’t enough for me to just be aware; I felt a need to get out and act, really do something. So I decided to try to help children who found themselves in situations like LaKeisha’s. After interning at the Children’s Defense Fund in D.C., I realized that the best way I could do this was in the courtroom. Going to law school to be a children’s advocate was a hard decision—little money and less acclaim—but it was what I was most passionate about, and it made my daddy proud.
“Please, girl, you’re just saying you’re never too busy because I’m the one picking up that fat law school tab,” my father said, reaching out for me in front of the country club. “Come give your dad a big hug.”
Walking up to the car to hug him, I looked over his shoulder and noticed a man getting out of the other side of the car. Tall, I thought almost immediately. The brother was stretching out to be at least six-four. He was pretty handsome, too, and I could tell that he was younger than most of my dad’s other friends by the way his chocolate skin wrapped tightly around his flawless features.
“T.H., this is Reverend Hall from First Baptist,” my father said, noticing my short stare.