A dear friend of mine recently celebrated his 40th year on the earth with a big, splashy birthday bash. For someone who remembers sixteen clearly that number seems huge. It hovers around the corner taunting me with the knowledge that I will eventually be that age in the next 10, 5, 4, 2 years, months, weeks, ah forget it! What difference does it make when I will get there, it just matters that I will get there too soon. My point is that as I celebrated with my friend, I looked around the club and thought to myself, damn! Where does the time go? As I rocked my thirty something year-old self to Michael Jackson, as I shimmied and shuffled to Mary J Blige, and as I attempted to keep up with the new tunes that requires a far more agile waistline than mine, I surveyed the crowd and had trouble reconciling the faces of the people I saw. The faces didn’t match the kids I knew from the playground or the smiling teenagers from the school yearbook. Who were all these old people? When did we all get grown with worry lines, kids, mortgages, Dodge Caravans and mommy style?

Don’t get me wrong, some of us had put up a ferocious fight with father time. There was evidence of the struggle being waged by the use of concealer to disguise dark circles, the use of spanxs to fight flab, and the determination to eradicate fashion faux pas with a steady diet of Vogue. Still time had marched on and exposed us as frauds. It showed when the music began and folks launched into the Cabbage Patch followed by the Running Man. It showed when some of us started to Bogle with a hint of Dutty Wine. It was evident when the livelier of us attempted to form what was slightly reminiscent of a Soul Train line. Many who had long ago given into laugh lines didn’t even attempt to shake their groove thing. Instead they sat in dark corners and tapped their feet to what they could catch of the beat.

It didn’t help my aging spirit that a young relative I dragged to the party with me, laughed as I attempted to Get Down On It with Kool & the Gang. Repeatedly through the night, she reminded me kindly that I looked GREAT and I only looked a little tired around the eyes. Gee, thanks. With all sincerity she said, it’s inevitable that as you get older you lose all your swag. I don’t know if I agree.

Like the celebrities that fight time with Botox, face lifts, crop tops and miniskirts in winter, should we refuse to give into time? Should we fight getting older or just throw in the towel? Do we rage against the dying of the light to quote my boy Dylan Thomas? Or do we hold on to our youthfulness and sexiness with both feet and hands?  Is being an Old Ass an eventuality or are we as Old as we choose?

I am not my hair. I am not this skin. I am not your expectations. I am the soul that lives within.    India Arie – I Am Not My Hair

Speaking from the standpoint of a woman who has no clue what her natural hair looks like, I hesitate to jump in feet first to the natural versus processed hair debate. I’m in no position to judge what a woman wants to do with her wig, weave, locks or tresses. Recently, however; I had a brief debate with a gentleman who told me that women who are natural are less influenced by the man and are more in touch with their Africaness. Ahh, okay. While my picture has never graced the cover of the Dark & Lovely box and I’ve never been photographed pro Panther with an Afro pick in my hair and my fist raised, I’m still a sister to the core. Sadly, it seems I don’t have the hair to prove it.

I dig my sisters sporting the fro, the loose wave, the all-out kink and the buzz cut. That they have embraced their beauty outside of the Yaki versus Remy hair war–it cost $200 for a decent weavologist to take my hair from Badu to Beyoncé blood feud—I’ve been at the hairstylist for three hours trying to torture my hair beautiful power struggle, is great. I admire the Shea butter, coconut oil and Miss Jessie Pudding wearing sisters. I do not, however; bestow them with an instant American Express All Black card of consciousness because their hair is kinky and mine is straight. No can do. I know natural ladies who have never read, much less written a book. I know women sporting an Afro for the mere reason that the perm made all their hair fall out. They are not addicted to the creamy crack based on any political stance. To say so would be ludicrous. While natural and beautiful, these women are neither less nor more blacker than me. Naturalness is a choice, a decision, a lifestyle change and I dig it. But I Am Not My Hair and a woman’s hair is not the sum of her parts. I have 99 problems but my relaxer ain’t one.

One day I will leave the lure of the pressing comb, the perm and the flat iron behind. I will not be drawn to the long ponytail to supposedly validate my existence. I will reject the establishment and go full-fledged I’m natural and a woman hear me roar. Not today though, today I have to go to work and the gas bill is due.

Does it make sense to divide women based on natural versus straight, dark-skinned versus light-skinned or field versus house chick? Can the processed and the permed sister still call herself black, conscious and African if she’s still Getting Wiggy With It?

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?

I’m breaking up with my doctor. She gots to go. We’ve been together a while so it’s with regret that I’m giving my doctor the old heave-ho. Make she “move and gweh” in Jamaican patois that means I’m giving her white-robe-wearing behind the axe. I don’t mean to be disrespectful but after years of denial I finally had to tell myself the truth: my MD doesn’t like me. Don’t misunderstand, she doesn’t see my name in the appointment book and head for the hills nor does she look at me with hate in her eyes. At my annual exam I don’t shake with dread and mortal fear that she will shove the speculum up my private parts a tad too far. She’s not Dr. Kevorkian prescribing treatments of death. Despite this, I’m not being dramatic when I say that my doctor still makes me fear for my life. Here’s why.

A doctor should be personable, professional but most importantly a doctor should care. Mine doesn’t. It isn’t anything overt, she’s pleasant but even though she’s known me for years I still get the blank stare. I’m a person on a chart with a medical history and no soul. If I’m going to put my life in someone’s hands that someone should care. Every conversation shouldn’t be scripted, prescribed and routine. I’d like for my doctor to ask me about my cat, my back, my grandmother, anything that would give me the slightest hint that she sees me as a person. It’s these side conversations that may lead me to tell her about the lump, bump, bruise or cough that I dismissed but she diagnosed with the quickness therefore saving my life.

I want the opportunity for my MD to fuss about the mole I’ve had since I was ten. I want her to ask me about my boyfriend and question whether we’re having unprotected sex. I want my MD to ask me about my weight and shake her head when the numbers get too high. When I call my doctor in an unplanned pregnancy panic, even though she knows I haven’t had sex in a year, I want her to listen and then casually order psychological tests. In short, I want my MD to keep me healthy with her care.

My doctor and I don’t have this kind of relationship so I’m finished with her, it’s over, done and caput. I want my co-pay to buy me a physician with that loving feeling. Whether the affection is real or feigned is irrelevant. I hold on to the belief that if I have to get naked in front of my MD, she should at least remember me.

In Divorce Court is it right to site inattention and irreconcilable differences in your case against your MD?

The Super is not a fan of bear cubs, puppies, baby rabbits or anything requiring training, constant attention and care, but whoa Nelly! Recently I saw a picture of J.LO and her boy toy Casper Smart and I had to do a double take. When Jenny from the Block was with Mark Anthony she looked miserable and morose.  Fast forward a scandalously short period of time and Jenny looks happy and hot. Wasn’t she supposed to follow the script? While her ex moved on to a much younger woman after their split, wasn’t she was supposed to clutch desperately to her youth while growing old, out of shape and alone? In the new millennium women are fighting back. They say that 40 is the new 20 and women of a certain age are refusing to languish man-less and dateless while they say goodbye to their youth.

Men like their women tender and now women like their men tasty. Madonna, J.Lo and Halle Berry to name a few are showing older women how it’s done. It’s time for the big payback. Now older woman are going for the fun factor by ditching men with erectile dysfunction and finding themselves little boy toys to love. Will these relationships last? I can’t say but I commend the cougars with their young men for not rolling up into a ball and calling it quits. If their fit and fabulous with abs and butts of steel, then why not show these young men what they’re working with? Looking good and feeling good is the best revenge.

While the Super likes her men somewhat seasoned I can acknowledge that there are benefits to dating young men. Such as:

• They say 40% of men over 40 have erectile dysfunction issues. Young men? Not so much. They are mini Stallions and they are ready to gallop at full speed.
• They have stamina for days. Can someone say first, second and third round?
• They are fun and remind the serious career woman how to let loose.
• They are open to new things and everything is a thrill.
• They are willing to be tutored, taught and educated and are not yet set in their ways.
• They are good for the ego. When they think their women look good they tell her so often.
• They are nice to look at. They are young, firm and fabulous from all angles.

The Super is no celebrity and is not in possession of a body that won’t quit. If I was, would I date a man young enough to be my nephew? Can’t say, but I do believe that being happy keeps women looking as fresh as little girls.

Is it better to ride an aging Stallion or break in a fresh new pony? Like men, should every Cougar catch and capture something wild and young?

Recently, I casually asked my dermatologist about one day getting Botox. He laughed in my face. “Go spend your money on something you need” he said and sent me on my way. Is he blind? Doesn’t he see the lines I see?

Every year I write a birthday post (See Old Dog, New Tale) because sadly, the Super is getting old. Grey hair EVERYWHERE old. Retirees tell me that I’m still young.  I’ve determined that this is what old people say to console each other. As yet another birthday blasts by, I realize that Jennifer Lopez notwithstanding, I will never be able to wear a super high mini skirt again without self-consciousness. Gone are the days where I chat with the drugstore clerk about anything other than anti-aging cream. Goodbye makeup free face maintained by moisturizer and four hours sleep. It’s time to get used to cashiers calling me ma’am, bitches, and little boys young enough to be my son trying to make a Cougar out of me.  To maintain muscle, I’ll have to up my workouts and…horror of all horrors… watch what I eat. Yeah, yeah, Father Time and I are enemies. I can complain for days, weeks if you give me some drinks, but the Super is all about encouragement, even if the encouragement is for me. So here is what age has taught me:

• I’ve learned tact. If a friend asks me if I think her daughter is a lesbian, age has taught me to say, “I’m not sure, but I’m here if you want to talk to me.”
• I’ve learned that “Karma is only a Bitch if you are” and “it’s none of my business what other people think about me.” (Stolen quotes but they’re all me)
• I’ve learned that if my boyfriend doesn’t like what he sees when I’m naked then he can take his d*ck elsewhere.
• I accept that I’m pretty enough. If I want to look like Halle Berry I have to have her parents.
• I now know that a thousand squats a day will not give me a Kim Kardashian booty.
• I realize that I’m not half as stupid now as I was in my twenties.
• I’ve learned that delay does not mean denial and everyday that I expect a miracle the closer the miracle is to me.

I won’t lie to you, getting older kinda sucks.  The gift of wisdom and foresight is rarely given to the young. Aging is inevitable so I’ve decided to be grateful that my heart is still beating, my body is still functioning and my mind is still sharp. In 40 years I’m looking forward to being a Super G, that’s Super Granny. Happy Birthday to me and all the other Aries.

Should we be able to freeze time like we can freeze our faces? Do we wish we could give our birthday some Botox?

The Super comes from a family that likes their offspring, light, bright and every shade south of being ebony. Our origins, if we traced them, come way of the mysterious Middle East. Now, although the present day generation is in every way chocolaty, there are still pockets of the family tree that long for our light-skinned past. Don’t get me wrong, the Super herself is no activist. Back in the 80′s, to my shame, my ideal man was described as, “light skinned with good hair.” Yes, I know, just slap me already. In the day, sadly my future spouse had no characteristics beyond being café au lait with abundance of non-kinky curls. As I thought about my mindset way back when, I realized that as backward as my thinking was in the time of acid wash jeans, even now people exist that haven’t evolved past the plantation. I present to the court of public opinion, exhibit A: the use and abuse of bleaching cream. Forget black don’t crack and the blacker the berry the sweeter the juice, for some, the only adage that resonates is white is right. Don’t misunderstand, I’m all for beauty enhancement products and fashion, but going from cocoa to cream, to me, is not like buying a new dress, getting a perm or going from a B cup to a D. If you’re born beige, brown or tan that’s one thing, but I’m against using bleach cream as a weapon. To my mind, there is no reason beyond self-hatred to kill, murder and annihilate all that is ebony. Pigment is not the enemy. For the millions who make hydroquinone related products the #1 seller in the beauty store, in the vast majority of the cases, the lightening of the skin detracted instead of enhanced their looks. Instead of an array of colors and complexions that make black people attractive, we have an assortment of men and women walking around looking like bottles of mustard. Unnatural hues and the telltale light face and brown hand isn’t sexy.

What’s wrong with us as black people that we deny our own flesh? We tell ourselves its fashion, style and a desire for change, but when we risk cancer and other ailments for a creamier complexion, our troubles are deeply psychological. I know the media and society has much to answer for in making us believe that black, brown and any shade of the night is unattractive. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder and we must love and accept what the mirror sees. Don’t fall prey to the colonialist ideology that there is no beauty in black. White-wash the mind; it is only the misconception of our true beauty that is unappealing and murky.

Black girl in white face? Is it right for women of color to bleach away their black?

It was dead.  Lifeless.  It couldn’t have survived a fall from such a height and it hadn’t.  It lay there inert, crushed and broken. I looked down on its crumbled form and resisted the urge to drop to my knees and scoop its broken contents into my hands. Cupcake can you hear me? The red velvet cupcake with its butter cream icing from the hot new bakery Crumbs didn’t answer. I considered the 5 second rule of eating things off the ground and instantly realized that I had hit rock bottom.  It was official.  I had a problem. How could I coach and counsel women towards success when I couldn’t even master myself? I had an addiction to sugar like Eric Benet had an addiction to sex. We both needed help. The urge to eat the dusty snack from the ground was my sub-conscious crying out for help.

AA was for alcoholics.  Rehab for those with an affinity for the pipe. Weight Watchers was for chubby chicks with severe addictions to tasty snacks? The latter was me. I fit the profile.  I’d never met a cake, cream puff or pie I didn’t like and my obsession had finally driven me around the bend.  I’d always liked dessert a little too much which guaranteed that I’d always had an intimate relationship with the white stuff, sugar that is, I’m not Charlie Sheen.  If I didn’t want to be the size of Two and Half Men then I had to stop trying to commit sugar suicide. As it was my metabolism was staging a protest. My body was already making its displeasure known.  In the fitness classes I took as an antidote to over-consumption, my body couldn’t keep up. In my Zumba class my feet were like lead.  In kickboxing class the bag was beating the hell out of me. Two chocolate bars minus one workout didn’t compute. I was out of shape and my addiction to the sweeter side of life was to blame.  No one, least of all me, wanted to see a Super hero with a pot belly. My love affair with sugary snacks had to end. I couldn’t let the cupcake beat me. My hands trembled as it grasped the mutilated body of my sweet snack that had jumped to its death to avoid me.  One second.  Two.  Poof. The cupcake was gone. What happened? I suspect foul play.

My lips show evidence of crumbs. Did I kiss my cupcake goodbye before introducing it to the circular file-waste paper bin or did it meet with a more shameful digestible end? No one knows for sure and I’ll never tell.

Do your lips crave the taste and texture of the sweet stuff? Have you committed Sugar Suicide?

A reader once accused me of being vain and beauty obsessed. I argued that she was an idiot and should spend more time reading my blog before hurling knucklehead remarks. Now in retrospect I think she might have had a point. Skimming through some of my more inspirational and uplifting posts, I noticed that there was also another trend.  With shame and chagrin I realized that I had written more than one post about my posterior. Did I have a fixation? Was I body dysmorphic with an unhealthy focus on the state of my behind? Forgive me readers for I have sinned. Besides being black, which in itself comes with its own beauty baggage, there are reasons for my unhealthy obsession.  Follow me if you will while I endeavor to explain where my booty psychosis began.

I have what you call adequate ass. It’s an ass that has potential that’s never fully realized. I have the sway in my back that promises a fatty of Janet Jackson proportions, but instead of exploding outward in an abundance of bounce, my ass runs straight into my leg and disappears.  As much as I bemoan my dimensions, I realize that it could have been a lot worse. My family tree on my father’s side boasts some unfortunate shapes. The multicultural bloodlines has blessed my female kin with overly large breasts, thick waists and bums that lay flat without a hint of curve. I escaped the horror of this silhouette through my maternal grandmother’s straight out of Africa roots. Her DNA softened the trauma that could have been my body type by downgrading the possible triple F bra size to an acceptable porn star D. It cinched in my waist moderately and gave me a bum, while not excessive, was more than adequate on anyone not black. All said, my bum had its perks. Naked, it is a mini Picasso wrapped in J brand jeans. It doesn’t dent, hang low or flop around (that will come with age). Born any place North of the mother land and I would have had a mini masterpiece on my hands.

Having said that, I would like to admit that the men in my past haven’t helped me with my pathology. Many of them expressed concern the first time they saw me from behind. Most accepted my booty on a consignment basis.  They still longed for the bouncy but they made do with my lack, because as they put it, ‘I was a nice girl.’ Yeah, I had booty baggage, but just like India Arie released her insecurities when she declared I am not my hair, I am NOT my ass. Today I will declare that I have come to accept, if not adore, my booty and my body. We are cordial acquaintances working on being more. We are respectful of one another’s limitations and provide one another polite, if not excessive, praise. I no longer envy the chicks with booties big enough to write its own name in the sand.  My curves and I have made peace. Readers, I can’t promise that this will be the last of my posts on the topic of my posterior but I will try to keep the madness under control. The Super still uplifts, preaches and prods women to accept themselves and be more. I’ll endeavor to spread the word and not my cheeks.

Has a hated body part made you into an obsessive freak?

These days eligible men are scarce and the fight to land and lock down a good man has some women going to extremes. In their pursuit of Mr. Marry Me some ladies pull out the big guns and use their booty as bait. I’m not knocking the next girl’s tactics but there is a right way to do things and then there’s just plain wrong. If you’re built like a thoroughbred with a body banging enough to inspire instant lust, I’m not saying you have to keep your best assets under wraps. Get your Serena on if you must but remember the best part of the gift is the unwrapping. If you expose all your wonders to the world what is there left to see? My young female readers are rolling their eyes as I speak. They’re envisioning me at my computer writing with a half-grown-in mustache, chin hair and a long-sleeved sweater despite the balmy seventy degrees.  No, not me. The Super is all for the sexy. If our exteriors are the canvas then we should paint ourselves with beautiful strokes. That said, men are visual and upon meeting us they conduct mental mathematics about our availability based on what they see.

“Pants tight enough to restrict breathing – one date, maybe two.”

“Dress short enough to see my future – dinner consisting of some hot water and then back to my place.”

These impromptu assessments about women are usually wrong but men could care less.  The judgment has already been made and they will treat us accordingly. In my teens I once wore a hip-high semi-see through shorts set. I paired my attire with knee-high boots and a black bra and panties that showed more than a few hints of skin. Yes, I know what you’re thinking: straight Ho bag who needs a citation from the fashion police. I beg your forgiveness for my fashion faux pas, but hell, it was the nineties and I was a teen. I got the attention I was seeking but it wasn’t the good kind. Instead of attracting the interest of the honest, humble and educated men I was seeking, instead every freak, sneak and player set his x-ray vision on me. Back then I thought the body was made for revealing but the attention I got was the type I didn’t need.  As I walked the streets that day strange men attempted to pinch and prod me making me wonder what made them think that they had the right. Just because I was dressed like a stripper didn’t mean I was one. Hell, I had the grades to go to University. I was smart!  That didn’t stop me from also being stupid beyond imagining. Wearing the shorts which the Jamaicans call Batty Riders, the Americans call Daisy Dukes or Pussy Printers for those that live anywhere past Jersey, didn’t guarantee me the man of my dreams. Instead, it attracted the dudes that were only interested in the place in my shorts that formed a V.  These men admired the shape of my ass instead of the shape of my smile. They were attracted to the exterior with little to no interest in the real me. No one wants to be loved for their body parts and no one should be.  I’m not opposed to the split in the dress, a low neckline or the dress that hugs the figure just right. Accentuate the positives but allow men to see beyond the V.

Finding a good man is hard. Is it now necessary to use our bodies as bait?

Recently a male friend of mine told me that his girl ‘got to be a freak!‘ I don’t think in my parents’ generation men married women for their freakiness. There was more substance incorporated into the selection process. But all the movies on television and all the rap videos now suggest that maybe a lesbian will make a good wife, a porn star is ideal and a swinger might fit the bill. Maybe a girl that lives on a pole might be just right. Where did these ideas come from? Since when do you have to enroll in stripping class to keep a man interested? Forget the B.A in Education girl; can you take off your top with any kind of seduction? Does it not occur to anyone that the video vixen is paid to look sexy, shake her ass and tantalize? She’s not capable of helping a child with his homework or domestic enough to keep a home. You’re free to marry her trifling ass but you’ll be sorry. Part of the brainwashing process is based on convincing black men and women that they’re not living up to each other’s expectations. Suddenly when we look at each other, because we have been forced fed these mind indoctrinations, we are finding things to complain about in each other that didn’t exist in the past. Watching enough videos will convince the black man that his girl should be a hard ten. She should have the proportions of a supermodel and she should be able to cook a swine better than his mama and his grandmother combined. It will convince him that if she has a mind of her own and opinions, that she’s combative. She’ll suddenly transform into a cast member on the Real Housewives of Atlanta. He will start looking at her with a jaundiced eye and she will no longer be able to fit into the narrow confines he has set out for his perfect mate.

On the other hand, the black woman will be lulled into the idolization of the alpha male. The alpha will be the one that can swing a dick, pick up the check and eat pussy with efficacy. He will be thoughtful and attentive but thug enough to whoop some ass if there is a need. He will be bad ass like the dudes of The Wire with the ability to switch it up and represent like the dude from the Allstate commercial. He will be pretty and professional like Blair Underwood but paid like Michael Jordan. Soon the dude pushing the cart in the mail room while pursuing his MBA in night school will not be good enough for her. He won’t match the personified picture of the perfect man. Brainwashing has stopped her from seeing the worth of the guy with the good upbringing, loving heart and willingness to make and create a family. It’s important as black people that we realize that there is nothing more powerful than when our DNA join forces. It’s a worldwide conspiracy to cultivate dissatisfaction so that black men and women will despise each other. If we do not meet and marry then we can no longer make any Usain Bolts, Malcolm X’s, Bob Marley’s, Oprah Winfrey’s, Billy Holiday’s and James Baldwin’s. Together we are powerful and if we continue to fight and despise each other then our power is weakened. Don’t surrender to the hype. Fight the urge to be your own Manchurian Candidate. Think for yourself and live your dreams. Realize that black love is like poetry – sweet, melodious and created to blend harmoniously.

For Black Love to prosper do women have to be super freaks?

Post excerpt taken from the upcoming Super Sistah Success Guide Entitled – Don’t Let the White Girl Win

She's a Super Freak

I went to the gym today. Push, pull, heave, run and lift. I’m glistening and I’m hot. Muy caliente— hot. ¡Ay, caramba— hot. Missy Elliot rapping the lyrics of her song called: