This morning I happily drove to pick up copies of The New York Times featuring an article about Amandla’s friendship with fellow actor Rowan Blanchard. Ahead of me was a very large man – in height and girth – who purchased half a dozen magazines.
 
“Would you like a bag with that?” asked the newsstand man.
 
“No, thanks,” replied the customer.
 
I placed my five hefty issues of the Sunday Times on the counter and handed him my credit card. He rang up my purchase. Silence. “May I have a bag please?” I asked.
 
“Sure,” he said, reaching for a white plastic bag behind him and placing the  papers inside.
 
I immediately launched into my default way of being and interacting in the world, a tactic I think I learned, perhaps unconsciously, from my mother. I engaged him.

1. Heading out the door to Agape the last Sunday in February aka Black History Month.

​It's been confirmed. A Sex and the City reboot, And Just Like That, is coming to HBO Max. It’s time to throw our Manolos into the air. Let there be bottomless Cosmos and lounging on beds in restaurants called Bed.

Scratch that. More than likely the show will feature combat boots and green smoothies and designer face masks. After all, it’s the 21st century and we’re muddling our way out of a global pandemic.

Nevertheless, I’m really hoping Corona won’t make an appearance because right now, I want escapism, This Is Us being the sole exception. I have binged Bridgerton exactly one-and-a-half times. Once I’m finished, I may go in for a third viewing. It’s that frothy. 

My expectations for the new series are low. Perhaps I just don’t want to be disappointed. I do know one thing: I will dissect every single episode, and I will have a blast doing so. After all, I’ve had over two decades of practice. Not only did I watch Sex and the City the series (I regularly dance to “You Got the Love” from the finale), I saw both movies. In the theater.

Just how obsessed am I?