The Worst Best Man

by Mia Sosa

In truth, I regularly monitor my daily emotional output the way some people track their daily caloric intake, and since my mother and I just shared a few teary-eyed minutes together, I’m either fresh out of feelings or close to exceeding today’s quota.

We must never let our emotions get the better of us; doing so is either a sign of weakness, one that diminishes our well-earned respect, or a mark of combativeness, which will cause people to say we’re irrational. And as women—women of color, more specifically—we simply can’t afford to be perceived in those terms.

Strength is a state of mind, and I’m willing it into existence, dammit.

Sighing on the inside at the detour in my day, I make a last-minute addition to my to-do list: eat my feelings.

Also, he’s cute in the eyes and thick in the thighs—a deadly combination that’s wasted on him.

He’s that friend you always find your way back to, the one who knows all your secrets and doesn’t care that you’re flawed, the one who’s seen your “before” pictures because he’s in them.

But I want companionship, the security of knowing someone has my back, the ability to comfort and be comforted. Friendship. Vacations. Maybe even kids one day. Someone solid. Predictable. A person who doesn’t need passion and sparks to build a lasting relationship. I don’t know that I’ll ever find that individual—and that makes me extraordinarily sad.