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…
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.
You push me and push me until I’m almost over the edge
I sit there, my legs dangling
Contemplating some shit
Wondering why I’m drawn to you
And you to me
Wondering why, when we like someone
When we say we care
We gotta be fucked up to them
Why we gotta push them away
Then try to draw them back in
But panic
When we realize
That it might just be
Too
Fucking
Late
I stop before I start. The words, special ones that will make you understand, won’t come. They’re hiding, just like I am now.
I drink, not for liquid courage but to dissolve my chagrin. It’s working, but the side effects are regret and anguish at choices I made in happier times.
It’s too hard loving you so fully and being shunned so subtly.
The telltale signs are the rising panic in my chest and that funny, irritable feeling in my nose before the tears come and I know you can’t ever love me, the way I love you.
And I can’t help to think what a fool I am.
I am taking a permanent break from you and no, I don’t wish you well.
I wish me renewed insight and resilience to cope with another heartache/break.
I know I can feel better and hope that it will be one day sooner than if I’d never wished for it at all.
Confessions of a Thinkaholic 