I’ve been called “babe” a lot in my life. And not in a she’s hot and sexy type of way (LOL) but strictly as a term of endearment. And that four letter word can make you feel so many things. Things you shouldn’t feel.
“Babe” will trick you, and have you feeling like you’re someone special to someone who’s really not that into you and really isn’t that special to you. But – that’s the thing…men know what to say, don’t they? Some men are simply pros at hitting the sentimental nail on the head and then driving it home.
I’m no one’s babe, really. So, I wonder why these men insist on calling me babe. What happened to my name? Have they forgotten it? Or perhaps they never knew it at all.
There are other terms of endearment that people give in to when we’re feeling our way around that awkward getting-to-know-you phase. And those carefully placed terms of endearment are supposed to make it easier isn’t it? It gives a false sense of intimacy that I guess is supposed to help things along. I personally don’t like to use terms of endearment unless I really feel interested. If I don’t feel that (like you’re a sweetheart, or my honey) then it feels stiff and foreign rolling off the tongue. And then I’m left sounding distant and removed while you eagerly call me Babe…
Finally had some time to watch some TV. And I randomly chose to watch a series called: Scenes from a Marriage. Woah, baby. This show has me all over the place with the emotions. I thought the actors did a phenomenal job – it felt so real and raw and mostly tragic. I’m almost finished but wow! It’s been a rollercoaster. And the thing is, most people in relationships/marriages won’t have that level of dialogue, such brutal insight. I mean, it physically hurt me to watch some of the scenes but perhaps I’m an outlier? Maybe I’m a sensitive person and this is why is resonates with me so much? I cannot imagine, and don’t want to imagine everrrr being in the position that either party of the couple found themselves in. It’s so complicated and why? Why are feelings so complicated? Why are we compelled to put ourselves in predicaments where anguish is an option? There’s no good answer to that so I’m going to polish off my wine and see if I can finish watching. All I know is that this is going to be stuck in my mind for a long time. I think ’m traumatized!
Snack fat
I’m scared of it
I’m hungry, but I can’t eat.
There’s no snackables, only cookables.
My sensible, rational self, has prepared for my insomniac self to wake up, ravenous and filled with hunger pangs.
My sensible, rational and weight-watching self understands that this insomniac self will devour all manner of terrible food choices in the wee hours of the morning and so…she prepares.
She protects against the spur of the moment, unsound reasoning of one who sleeps in short spurts.
The fuel needed to sustain all these cohesive selves through the day does not contain Red-40 and hydrolyzed corn syrup.
I noticed him while I was waiting for the bus. I was pretty preoccupied, thinking about tonight, tomorrow, and the next day after that. I had lots to think about, but I noticed him all the same. Maybe because he was making some sort of noise when I approached? It could have been him singing; I noticed the black headphones in his ears – but I couldn’t be too sure because I was in my own world, listening to my own music.
I boarded the bus and noticed the 3 single row seats were free. The woman who boarded before me took the rear seat, the coveted seat, and I felt slightly resentful. It was ok, I conceded. I sat in front of her and settled in, wanting to get back to my book that I was struggling to finish reading. It wasn’t until a few moments later that I noticed the man in front of me was the same one I observed at the bus stop. I noticed him now because he seemed to be very agitated and it annoyed me. I stopped reading and glared at him.
Why can’t he sit still?
Perhaps he was on drugs?
I began to wonder which drugs made you jittery and restless. I wasn’t all that sure and my spur of the moment list was short.
Coke, heroin, lsd, pcp?
I didn’t know if any of those fit. I began to take more notice of him. He had curly black hair that looked dull at the moment but probably would spring to life when freshly washed. He had pock marks on his cheeks and appeared to be middle aged. I honestly don’t know what middle aged means anymore because if humans are living longer, then “middle aged” takes on new meaning but I digress. He had that salt and pepper thing going on in his beard and it’s normally sexy on the right person but he didn’t strike me as sexy. He wore a striped shirt that reminded me of Freddy Krueger and that made me dislike him just a little more.
I kept staring, making a game of it; how many times will he switch positions in the next 10 seconds – before I realized he was crying. He shook visibly and he kept grabbing at his eyes, almost angrily as if he was upset that he was crying but couldn’t quite help it.
I felt a little bad now for all my judgment and I began to ruminate about the reason for his tears. Death in the family? Breakup? Job loss? I envisioned handing him a tissue and asking if he was ok but I would never do that. After all, I didn’t even have any tissue.
I continued to stare, willing his tears to stop, thinking back to a time when I was crying in public and couldn’t help it. All over a stupid man. And remembering that an older man started to converse with me. I’ll never know if it was to make me feel better or perhaps he was oblivious to my tears and just wanted someone to talk to but it stopped my tears and cheered me a little in the moment.
I returned from my reverie. I realized Freddy Krueger shirt was making an effort to not cause a scene by putting his head down. All I could think was that he had the weight of the world on his shoulders and I couldn’t do anything about it.
Confessions of a Thinkaholic 