Black love will make ya say, “Cheese!”
No one is worried about Robert Kardashian, Sr. He’s found a cool place in the grass. But are you worried about Rob? Robert Kardashian, Jr., that is.
If what the tabloids report is true, it takes the Jaws of Life to extricate Rob Kardashian from the wreckage of romantic relationships. It’s a torment most of us have endured at least a handful of times. It’s a torment that leaves some of us black & blue, swearing off the opposite sex.
Going to the mall and walking past perfume or cologne fills us with both nostalgia and nausea.
Girls learn early that nothing is as good as it seems, especially boys. So, after a short courtship that proves insignificant in our limited worldview, we might say, “Can we just be friends?” When we hear that because of that girl from waaaay back when that men are emotionally shut down, we women giggle (on the inside (never to your face)).
I’m giggling now (on the inside). Not because I’m cruel but because who let’s a whiff of puppy love gone sour waft into their adult life and stink it up?
When you’re older and hopefully more mature, love, unfortunately, does not become a softer bed for Roses with deeper understanding.
We form these so-called “committed” relationships that last 72 hours. We shack up. Birth kids. Sometimes we even go through the motions of saying “I do” not just to each other but before a minister, family, and friends. So if you’re a man and Beloved sends you to the “friend zone,” it can be traumatic, especially if Beloved, choosing to send you to the “enemy zone” instead, cheats her way out of the relationship.
Girls are led to believe that boys, like dogs, are more possessive of their main chew toy. Boys as we have established don’t bounce back so easily after that image of Beloved and Old Dude gets stuck in their heads. This image is the reason why it takes men 7 dog years to ever “commit” their fickle and ever-failing hearts to a “bitch” again.
Happiness: Medicine for the Soul
Still, all men want commitment. They just would rather be committed to an asylum if being committed means having their egos impaled to the ground by 6-inch stilettos.
This leads us back to Rob Kardashian, the junior. If he swelled as big as Texas when Rita Ora allegedly “played house” with someone else, what on earth will he do should Blac Chyna, his savior, dig another big black hole for him? What will he do if she sends him back to a mama preoccupied with getting her own groove back, to too many twisted and disinterested sisters, to an estrogen overloaded household?
Black love (bad or good) is harder to shake. She hugs you like a fur coat in the coldest winter. Her lips on your chest helps you breathe again, like Vicks Vapor Rub. She looks at you as though you’re the last buck on the plantation. She makes you feel like you’re needed, indispensable, like Superman. She makes your head swell and fly higher than a weather balloon, makes you feel as tall as Yao Ming. (But that could be the weed.) The way a black girl’s hand on a sweet Armenian boy’s knee (or his anything) soothes from the inside out, po’ thang won’t know if it’s the Alizé or a touch of Icy Hot.
If Blac Chyna love has already sent Rob Kardashian across 10 states, putting desert highway miles on a perfectly good Bentley to bust a good girl gone temporarily bad out the slammer, now would be a good time for us to bow our heads and pray. Pray that above all things, Beloved, that Rob Kardashian’s emotional fitness keeps pace with his physical fitness so that his fragile heart never fails him again.
