Recently a dating prospect asked me the question destined to make me see red. Innocently he said, You’re a beautiful black woman, seemingly sane with your head on straight. Why are you still single? It’s okay, you can tell me. What’s wrong with you?

What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you, son!! I’m a winner. I’m an Ace of Spades. I’m a catch.  I am…single. Deflate. Deflate. Deflate. Still, who the heck was he to question my status or insinuate that I was in any way defective? I’m a woman and not a carton of milk left on the store shelf past its due date?  Those who live in glass houses shouldn’t cast stones. After all, he was a 40 year old man sitting alone watching TV on a Saturday night.  Women have to wait for the ring so instead of asking about my problems he should have taken a good look at himself?  He’s still blowing up my phone looking for a second date but I’m permanently on vacation. The cheeky bastard.  I think that’s what they’d call him in England but here in America we’d call him a punk ass.

Now, I know I shouldn’t have gotten angry or taken the question personally but you better believe that I did. Instead of reacting I must accept that as I get older this will happen more frequently.  For the record, I’m not milk. I never go bad. If I was milk I’d be Parmalat which has a never ending use-by-date.

Like milk, do women expire and lose their taste? Does brains and beauty have an expiration date?