If you put me on a well lit stage, dress me in something that compliments my sista assets, beat my face something wicked, put all of my friends and family in the first 50 rows surrounding the stage I am standing on with signs displaying their adoration for me, cue the Jasmyne Cannick version of “This Is Your Life,” conveniently leaving out those moments I’m not so proud of—like the time I fell out in a McDonald’s induced coma on the couch in front of the television fully dressed with a french fry in one hand and a Chicken McNugget in the other or the time I keyed my ex-girlfriend’s car and then hid my car at my best friend’s house all because she had the audacity to be at the Les Nubians concert with some other chick and I momentarily lost it—I’d deliver an Emmy worthy performance too.

I’m just saying.

Don’t make it out to be more than it is. She, like everyone else, is doing her part—no more no less. Neither tonight’s performance or tomorrow’s encore by the hubby is going to erase the past 16 months for this sista.