Strawberries


I was talking with my older sister one day about relationships when she gave me an interesting story about strawberries.

It’s a summer day. The bright sunlight warms your skin and makes your shadow dance on the porch as you lounge outside.

The heat of the day makes you thirsty.

Really thirsty.

And you don’t want just any drink.

You want a homemade strawberry smoothie.

So you go to the grocery store.

Your throat parched.

Your mouth watering.

Your tongue dry, ready for the sweet sensation.

You head to the produce section to pick up some strawberries.

But they’re all moldy.

You pick up another package.

That one’s moldy, too.

You check the packages underneath that one.

They are all full of strawberries, plastered with white fuzzy mold.

But you want that smoothie so bad that you buy two packages of the moldy strawberries.

You toss the berries in the blender with ice.

And when it’s poured in the glass, complete with a straw and mini umbrella, it looks great.

But 10 minutes after you drink it, your head begins to swirl and your stomach hurts.

And you vomit.

Sometimes singleness can be a lot like thirst.

The desire for that season to end is so strong that anyone who crosses your path seems like a viable candidate.

Spoilage symptoms.

Clues of decay.

Evidence of eventual decomposition can be easily pushed aside.

If you’re thirsty enough…

Or desperate enough to ignore them.

I was reminded of this story during a conversation with my friend, Roxanne. She was telling me about a friend of her boyfriend. This friend had asked her if she had any single available friends for him to meet.

And a lightbulb that looked like me began to glow in her head.

“Girl…you should go out—“

“No.”

My response earned me a hiss.


 “Why not?!”

I grew quiet, hoping my silence would help her memory.

Roxanne had told me stories about this guy. A voyeuristic incident that left me a bit perturbed. His predilections for a type of woman I could never be. Odd behavior that even left her boyfriend full of caution.

Yet, a date with him would be right for me.

“You’re being judgmental.”

Am I? Or am I just being wise?

Passing on the moldy strawberries.

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