Lessons From “The Weekend” Girl

If you know me, read my blog, or even listen to my podcast, you know two things about me: My dating life is a series of unfortunate events and I learn things on my time which is a very nice way of saying I’m hard headed.

While spending the entire weekend listening to the album that has become the soundtrack to my messy ass life, SZA’s CTRL, one track really took me back— “The Weekend.” I played the song so many times that by Sunday, I knew every single word and came up with a video treatment in my head.

My man is my man is your man too. Loving this sister wives anthem #CTRL pic.twitter.com/6SHnpU6MnW

— habitual linestepper (@LifeWithJRDN) June 9, 2017

In fact, as my friends listened to the album, they agreed that “The Weekend” is my theme song.

Not only is “The Weekend” a bop, it’s relatable and reminded me of a time where I was content with being the other woman as long as I was satisfied. Here’s my story as “The Weekend” girl:

Let me start by saying, I feel like I’m a “man with a girlfriend” magnet. So far, every man I’ve met or have been attracted to this year has had a secret girlfriend who hides in the depths of tagged pictures on Instagram. I’m almost at the point of my life where I’m considering asking men if they have a girlfriend before we even get to the first date. Yes, it’s that bad. Most of my dates so far have fallen into two categories: I’m uninterested or he has a girlfriend and is claiming to be polyamorous.

“You say you got a girl/ Know you want me/How you want me when you got a girl?”

In February, I got a text from a past lover asking where he could buy liquor in Harlem. Now, I know what you’re thinking: I’m not Siri or Google, so why are you asking me? But this ex was different. Though we ended on pretty brutal terms, something kept drawing us back together. Not only did we have history, but chemistry too…and y’all know I can’t deny chemistry. As his text laid across my screen, a wave of emotions hit me. I was excited, nervous, and happy all at once. This was something I hadn’t felt in a long time, especially not with any of the men I had been seeing. I had butterflies and I hadn’t felt like this since my last crush in August. Knowing (but of course not doing) better, I texted him back and we set up a time to meet the following day.

I showed up to his hotel trying to convince myself both his and my intentions were completely innocent, but I knew better. Sitting on opposite sides of the bed like two nervous strangers, we made small talk. As we got comfortable, we laughed and moved closer. We cracked jokes at each other’s expense and moved closer. We bonded over how stressed we were about our future. Suddenly, two people, who were too afraid to even look each other in the eye too long without nervously looking away, were wrapped up in each other. His arm was wrapped around my back and my head laid on his chest. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good to just be. Even with ESPN becoming the soundtrack to our silent moment, we were just comfortable.

I didn’t ask if he was still in a relationship. To be honest, I didn’t want to know and I’m not sure if it was going to change my mind about what came next. It was just like old times, maybe even better. Our bodies moved around each other as if we were playing a fun round of Twister. His mouth on mine, his hands on my neck, and my legs locking perfectly on top of his. I hadn’t felt anything for anyone (especially sexually) in such a long time that I didn’t want this moment to end. But, it did. And when it did, we were right back to being two awkward strangers as if it were the first time we had seen each other naked.

I finished getting dressed before him and just watched him. Frazzled could be used to describe his actions but his face said something different. He walked me to the elevator where we faced each other for the last time. He tried to avoid eye contact before going into an awkward hug, but I could finally see that a wave of guilt had washed over his face — a look I had seen before. I tried to shake the eerily feeling that was crawling the places he had just touched, but I couldn’t. I called him.

“Hi, do you still have a girlfriend,” I asked aggressively into the mic of my headphones while walking down 14th. He paused for a minute and asked if we could talk about it later, but that was all the answer I needed. My heart slightly sunk. Not because I wanted him, but because half of me knew that though I didn’t want to be “that girl,” in the moment I didn’t feel bad about being her either.

“The feelin’ is wreckless/ Of knowin’ it’s selfish/ Knowin’ I’m desperate/ Gettin’ all in your love”

We spoke the next day, and I listened as he rambled about how he and his girlfriend were on “rocky terms,” had been arguing (surprisingly over me), and had no trust. I couldn’t tell who he was trying to make feel better about the sticky situation we now found ourselves in, him or me. “She thinks I’ve been fucking you,” he said. “Well, now she’s right,” I nervously chuckled into my phone. We spoke for about two hours and that wave of comfort washed over me again. He asked how he should handle the situation and we agreed that it’d be best if we didn’t hook up again, but would remain friends. You know, the kind of “friends” you have when you decide you don’t like your significant other anymore, but don’t know how to leave him/her. The kind you flirt with when you’re fed up with your partner’s bullshit for the time being. Yes, those kind of friends.

” You’re like 9 to 5, I’m the weekend/Make him lose his mind every weekend.”

As a woman who’s been cheated on by the same man, I should’ve felt bad. This wasn’t me, it wasn’t in my character, I wasn’t her. But instead, I felt nothing. I might’ve even (okay, I did) gloated for a minute. I made no promises to her, he did. I wasn’t in a relationship, he was and I decided this wasn’t my burden to carry. We carried on our “friendship” for a few more weeks. But soon, a few innocent texts featuring some light flirting and rounds of iPhone basketball weren’t doing it for me anymore. I craved more attention than what I received when I knew he wasn’t around her and I deserved more.

” I gotta say I’m in the mood for a little bit more of that/ I mean I’m saying what kind of deal is two days?/ I need me at least ’bout four of them/More of them, more of you on me…”

My guilt started kicking in. I felt myself doing too much to receive the comfort and attention I had become hooked to. I fell back and we stopped talking around March.

During the height of Mercury Retrograde, I got a random text at 1AM. Before I even read it, I knew who it was from.

“Hi, this is ______. Is this a good time to talk?” 

It wasn’t, but I responded as nicely as I possibly could out of “respect” for him and the relationship he clearly wanted to salvage. We spoke on the phone and exchanged a few below the belt passive aggressive shots at each other. My life had become an episode of fucking Love and Hip-Hop: Trenton. I hung up the phone more angry than I should’ve been, I had been convincing myself for weeks this wasn’t my business. That she wasn’t my business and now? It was.

As many other women in panic, I consulted my group chat, who reassured my sentiments that it was his place to speak to his girlfriend, but I wasn’t innocent either. I agreed not to out him because it was never my intentions to be with him. I was in it for the feeling. But, the conversation she and I had kept replaying in my head. She knew things that happened during the relationship he and I had that she shouldn’t. She purposely said things to make it seem as if she was holier than thou and I was “that girl”— the other girl. She had me fucked up and that I couldn’t let slide.

I texted him in the most aggressive way possible to “come get his girl.” I reminded him that I was respecting the status of their relationship just as much or little as he was. Fuming, I impatiently checked my phone every five minutes for what felt like hours waiting for his response, an apology I convinced myself I deserved, or anything. Then it came. Do you know what’s worse than pouring your heart out and receiving a “Okay” text?

A “Heard You.”

Staring at the screen wondering why I or this entire situation wasn’t worth a full sentence, I was pissed. Not just because he didn’t care, but because I had let my need to romanticize a cheap moment that was only a temporary fix lead me into a heap of drama. My bruised ego from a two word text wouldn’t allow me to calm down. I called, he didn’t answer. I paced around my home practicing all the ways I would curse him out and even plotted on making a trip to Trenton. But for what? To make myself feel better.

Then there was her. Though I wasn’t supposed to be upset with her, I was. I couldn’t shake the backhanded comments and knowing that her and her boyfriend had conversations about me and my body that he wouldn’t even speak to me about. “You’re a woman who doesn’t respect space,” she texted me before I finally called her to give her the full rundown. What she didn’t understand was that it wasn’t him I wanted, it was the feeling he gave me, that comfort, and he knew that. Comfort was and still is something I’ve been searching for in each man I’ve been seeing and for a moment I thought I had it.

I addressed every claim and misconception she had about me before I blurted out the moment me and her boyfriend shared. I allowed her to vent about how her intuition and “energy” knew he was cheating, her trust issues from a previous relationship that ended the same way, and how we as women shouldn’t be pitted against each other.

I listened, but didn’t care. I wasn’t about to become her sister-wife just because we sat on the same man. Drained from the entire ordeal, I told her to call me if there were anymore misconceptions or lies she wanted to clear up and we haven’t spoken since.

I could sit here and write a ton of excuses about how I’m not wrong for allowing myself to be someone’s solace while in a relationship, but it would all be a lie. What I’ve learned the hard way is something that I’ve always known— Jersey men ain’t shit. No but seriously, temporary fulfillment is just as unsatisfying as feeling empty to begin with. Being comfortable with someone (even yourself) takes time and lacking patience has always been one of my shortcomings. I’ve noticed that I wasn’t comfortable with some of the men I had been seeing because I wasn’t allowing myself to be. My guard is constantly up, scanning for a girlfriend, secret baby, a hint of misogyny, or something that’ll give me an excuse to not be comfortable. I’m currently working on allowing myself to just be especially while dating.

Have you ever been the weekend girl? Let me know in the comment section.