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21 more things = 42

The last post was the 21 things I KNOW at 42. At the end I said I'd consider writing 21 more things to make it 42 in total & then ...


He Lives In My Lap

I’ve seen him on TV several times. There’s not a more polished, well-appointed, young Black man on the small screen--in my opinion. Every loc strategically placed and his line is impeccable. Eye lashes separated perfectly. Complexion even. Mustache and beard trim and precise. His tie is never a square centimeter askew. Teeth white. Manicured nails. Clearly well-taken care of by his stylists.

When he was Cousin Jeff on BET, I often wished he was my cousin, the fine one who’s not a 1st or a 2nd but the child of someone married in and sharing absolutely NO blood with me. We could meet at the picnic table in the park at the family reunion. We’d fish in the cooler at the same time, clearly planned by me, and lock fingers---Fire in Ice. We’d be a love story, a miracle re-blending of families that doesn’t accidentally blur DNA strands giving “birth” to the unfortunate consequences often fabled to come from incest. There’d be no humpback, short-armed, cross-eyed drooling kids for us. No sir. They’d be beautiful honey coated full lipped babies destined for the good life that can accompany brains and beauty. You know, theoretically or fantastically speaking...

There were times when his almost wax-figure perfection was unsettling. I’d question what real man could be this well-coiffed, pointed and pressed. At times I questioned if his metro-sexual appearance hinted at some other blurry lines he might cross. Crushin on Cousin Jeff often felt like a quagmire.

And then I went to the mall. I won’t say which and completely tear up the man’s privacy, but it was local to me. If you know where I am, well, let your mind wander. A friend and I had come out of a store and I just happened to catch a beautiful man out of the corner of my eye. I casually, contrary to how I felt, said to her, “there’s Jeff Johnson.” We walked over to him, out of respect for his socio-political intelligence of course, to speak [and get a closer look]. She also was skeptical that it was actually him. We spoke. He spoke back. In an exchange that lasted less than a minute I had catalogued him. Those strategically placed locs weren’t as perfectly laid. He rocked jeans and Timbs. He had on a grey/blue jacket. He had 2 beautiful little boys with him. He was a man, a real man before me. He shook her hand first and then mine. His hand felt like paper. Dry like regular dudes. I was both turned off by it and turned on by the fact that he’s not perfect. Like a friend says about beautiful women-her feet gotta be ugly or something. The shine was lost by the “regular dude” of it all for my girl. But his realness only egged me on [in my mind].

Before I blogged that public figures were off limits from the He Could Get It List. I had to bite my tongue and not actually utter the words that I felt so deep in my soul: Jeff Johnson COULD get it. I may have just set it up, since he’s as local as a mall near to me, and put the tag on his toe. I didn’t notice any rings.

I’ll leave this as a compliment to a beautiful mind packaged in a beautiful man. And encouraged by the unlikely union (though ended) of Janet Jackson and Jermaine Dupri: ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE!!

Watch me move.

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