God, I was such a sexy child.
From the ages of two to seven, I was serving fierceness on a platter of seduction. I had a male pediatrician and when it was time for a check-up, I couldn’t wait to strut into the exam room in either my strawberry or blueberry halter-top sundress. I knew that dress accentuated my figure the best out of any of my ensembles and was an automatic conversation starter. “Oh Ambrosia, what a beautiful dress!” my doctor would say. “And it’s covered in strawberries/blueberries! Do you like strawberries/blueberries? They are so good for you!” I’d be under the exam table, luring him in with a flirtatious game of “Hide and Seek”, coyly nodding my head, the beads and barrettes in my hair that perfectly matched my outfit click-clacking away. I’d play shy and ever so slightly hike up my dress in that way that little girls do, but I’m sure I did it as a silent signal to show him that my mother had taken special care to Vaseline my knees, just for him. And probably for me. I’m sure it’s every black woman’s nightmare to have an ashy child, especially in front of “mixed company”. The judgments on her parenting would be heard across the land! Her tombstone would read “Here lays Ambrosia’s mother, who could not be bothered to properly lotion up her child before a doctor’s appointment, no less. And the doctor was WHITE. Mmm-hmm.”
I made sure to accentuate my sexiness with the height of 1980’s fashion accessories. I had a pink and black cross-body bag, covered in Playboy Bunnies. The logo of the rabbit wearing a bow-tie, not actual naked ladies. Please, I would put those bitches to shame with my white opaque pantyhose and black patent leather Mary Janes. I wore that joint everywhere, with every outfit. I knew before anybody that pink was the new black and that my embrace of a controversial brand was a sign to all that I was a progressive woman of our time. I would rock bikini tops and short-shorts in the summertime. Was my body bikini ready? Nope. Did I care? I looked high and low and could not find one single fu*k to give. My belly was round and brown and glorious. It hung just-so over my short-shorts with the cherry appliques (You see the ongoing fruit theme? I knew what I was doing.). I was a body-acceptance activist before it was mainstream. And I was fly.
Fast forward 25 years or so, and I’m pretty sure the circa-1980’s me would be giving current me some major side-eye. I mean, I’m not really aiming for sexy, usually, but that natural je ne sais quoi that oozed from my pre-pubescent pores seems to have dried up. I got glasses – big, Sally Jesse Raphael-looking mothertruckers – in the third grade which I think may have put a cap on the animal magnetism I had previously and so effortlessly exuded. I’d like to channel the sexy kid me. She was pretty dope. She put on elaborate variety shows at the drop of a hat and demanded her audiences’ attention, dammit! Her go-to facial expression for candid and casual pictures was a look that screamed “I can’t with you”. She had men of all ages vying for her attention and being very free and easy with their sugar-free chewing gum and breath mints. She wore lace and drank ginger ale from a cocktail glass, with a tiny straw, while on a Caribbean cruise. She’d probably have serious reservations about my Natural hair and acceptance of the leggings trend, though eventually, I think I’d get her to sign off on at least the hair. If I could learn to be more like Sexy Kid Ambrosia, I might have less of a reason to have a blog that documents the various ways one can see why I’m single. I think I know where I should start:
How much do you think a pink and black cross-body Playboy bag goes for nowadays?
I Can See Why She's Single. 