And I really am so damned easy to love.
     When this Beyonce song came out, “Why Don’t You Love Me?… ya’ll should have seen me. I downloaded this joint off of Mediafire ASAP and put it my iTunes on “repeat 1.” If you haven’t heard this song, you need to. Like… Now.
    Over and over again she sings, “tell my why don’t you love me, when I make me so damned easy to love?” The first time I heard this song was circa March when my last relationship finally fell to pieces. Pieces I had tried to put together time and time again, but couldn’t find anything strong enough to hold it in place. The most bizarre part of this failing relationship was that he had no real reason to leave me.
     Ok. I’ll admit. I’m a bitch. I complain when I’m upset and I don’t like to be wrong. For the most part, these qualities are simply collateral from having a vagina. Other than that, I felt like… aren’t you supposed to take the good with the bad?— Now, I’m only going to speak for myself on rest of this post (each Ella for herself) because I know my story. —I felt like there was a good trade off. For having to put up with complaints every once in…. when ever he deserved it, he got a prime pick.
     When I was with him, I was 21 years old, on my last year of college, making the dean’s list, making him dinner, making him lunch, making him breakfast, making his bed, folding his clothes, cleaning his house… I was on my Erykah Badu “go to the sto’ fo’ you. Do it and mo’ fo’ you,” vibe when it came to him. I was “Out of my mind. Just in Time.” In short… I am a “recovering undercover over lover.” In the end, he found out something he didn’t want to know, that I had lied about… but that was really none of his business anyway. [& No, Ella did not cheat. He was just upset to find out that Ella existed before he came along.] I didn’t drive. I was in college. Unless you have some serious mommy money or live close by, it’s hard to have a car while you’re in school. Ferderal Work-Study doesn’t pay enough for insurance and liquor. I know that bothered him. But really… is that a reason for a guy to not like a girl, because he has to go pick her up?
     Now, I’m 22 years old with a bachelor’s, working full-time and looking for my own place in New York City. I’m still intelligent (promise). I still cook and clean. I might not look like Beyonce in the “Why Don’t You Love Me,” video, but I am one hell of a woman and live in six-inch heels for 10 hours a day.
     And I lost 20 lbs. As my friend Crystal said the other day “look at the waist to ass ratio!” He should see me now 🙂 I’m not a terrible looking girl. And I can honestly say that I’ve improved over the years. Guys who paid me no mind back in the day all of a sudden remember my name. & I look better every time they see me. I promise. I know this because I do this on purpose. There are plenty beautiful women out there, many much prettier than I am, but I’m not a complete loss. Whatever I don’t have in face, I have in body. What I don’t have in body I have in mind. I’m well-rounded. I’m a Liberal Arts girl. 
     After he and I ended, all I could do was replay all the BS he had told me. The things about wanting to marry me and love me. You know…those “forevers” men like to throw around? Many men tend to say things.. and sure they mean them, but only in the moment. TIme after time I’ve sat and listened to men list off why I’m such a great girl (“cause you going places”, “You’re independent,” “You have a head on your shoulders,”) etc, but time after time I lay alone in bed wondering why  I’m still alone.
     I can’t say I’ve met many men that I’d give myself to and marry, but I have met a handful… maybe half a handful… literally. But obviously I’m sitting here with you and without company. This isn’t a complaint rather a self-evalutation. An effort to decipher the true reasons why one minute I’m “the one” and the next I’m just another one. It used to hurt. I used to blame myself for being alone. Maybe I’m not pretty enough. Not skinny enough. Not tall enough. Not “fly” enough. My boobs too small. My nose too big. My skin too dark. My hair too short. –I’m giving you the honest truth. These were my literal thoughts. While I always maintained an outward confidence, I never truly appreciated myself. 
Until now. 
   I am beautiful. I am thick. I am 5’8 with heels on. I am absurdly fly. My A cups look best in a demi bra. If I tilt my head just right in pictures, my nose is just fine. I have the most delicious chocolate skin and if I want 16 inches to cascade down my back, I will go out and buy a pack. I am a college educated woman with no kids, a savings account, and her professional foot in a very open door.  I’m not Beyonce but I can upgrade a man. I guarantee it.
     Now why don’t men see a woman like me and try their hardest to hold on? I whole-heartedly believe in the 80/20 rule. M friend saw my ex a while ago. “He looks skinny. Like the new girl can’t cook,” she texted me. Good. I hope he starves. I hope he starves for love, conversation, completion, fulfillment and happiness. I know that’s harsh… but I was willing to give this to him.  I begged him to let me give this to him and he decided he could do without. I hope he does without. 
      If I were you, reading this, the question I’d have is “What’s her real flaw?”  I give too much. I love too hard. I mean it when I say, “I love you.” I was ready to be his. He said he would marry me, but unfortunately I actually meant it when I said it to him. I was too ready. Other than that, I’m a normal person like any other… but I certainly have good qualities. Then there were things like… I didn’t wear sexy enough underwear. (Check my “Lingerie Matters” piece to see how I dealt with that. My next boo will be happy, I assure you.) The real, underlying reason he and I might not have worked out? I was too good for him. He’d always question whether I’d leave him for a richer man. A better dressed man. He worried that when I moved to New York [yes, when. Whatever Ella say, Ella probably do.] I’d find a more handsome, more successful man and that I’d leave him. 
      What he couldn’t grasp is that richer more handsome men wanted me before him, during him and after him –specifically his new found, close friend. If they were to share stories about me, I 100% guarantee they’d both secretly be thinking of how they should have held on to me.  So… you know what hunny, I guess you were right. I am too good. 
     If I was the one, I’m glad I got away. 
“I got beauty, I got class. 
I got style and I got ass. 
& you don’t even care to care?
 I even put money in the bank account. 
Don’t have to ask no one to help me out… 
You don’t even notice that… 

I got beauty. I got heart. 
Keep my head in them books, I’m sharp. 
But you don’t care to know I’m smart. 

I got moves in your bedroom. 
Keep you happy with the nasty things I do. 
But you don’t seem to in tune…

There’s nothing not to love about me.
There’s nothing not to need about me

Maybe you’re jus not the one. 
Or maybe your just plain…..