Ride or Die Chick

I was thinking the other day about why I don’t have a boyfriend and yes, I’ve decided that I want one (for various reasons). But do I have what it takes to be in a relationship? I’m not so sure. I’m not a ride or die chick. There’s just certain shit I’m not putting with up with. (As my boy would say, “D, your lists have lists and even your rules have rules.”) Unfortunately, being (or having) a ride or die chick seems to be the common denominator of all my coupled friends.

My epiphany came the other day when I was reading about Carmelo Anthony getting pulled over on the way home from a club and detained at the police station for DWI (or DUI?) and his fiancee’s stark refusal to go pick him up (which she denied a couple days later.) When I initially read the story, I saw nothing wrong with what she did. Adamantly, I argued that like her, I am not going to the police station to pick up some fool of a grown ass man who got himself locked up for some dumb shit (adults being too f*cked up to drive and getting behind the wheel is some dumb shit.)

I’ve been to the police station once before to complain about some stupid shit that a Black man did. Standing at the counter waiting to speak to a female officer, my girl who went with me observed, “well, you’re officially a Black woman now.”

I asked her to explain and she said: “Oh, showing up at police station for some shit that a dumb n*gga did is like a rite of passage for Black women. It’s like getting your period and getting a perm. Congratulations, D, you’re a real woman now.” (She and I don’t talk like we used to, but damn I miss her sarcastic wit.)