Yesterday I met Predatory Pam for tea-and-me-and-thee. I hoped for mutual benefit.
When I arrived, in an area not in my ‘hood, she was posed in front of the coffee shop window, as if ensconced on a throne, well perched and poised, ready to – Strike. Me. Out.
Her nose reached out, hook-like, with each verbal jab, each toast and roast aimed. She used every inch of her height, her toad-angled forehead, and her unadorned eyes to augment the power of self-weighted words.
That she admitted a competitive bent should have put me on red alert, but words take a while to sink into my bones. I apparently arrested at the childhood wonder stage, which has good edges and bad. I am sensitive and not always sensible in who I see and hear say. The butts.
The week prior I met Derringer Diane, so named for the look in her eyes, as if bullets could be shot from her pupils. Her instant name-dropping cast her as the Hansel and Gretel of self-definition, leaving a trail of references of purportedly well-known people to exclaim her prowess above mine. Rat-a-tat-tat! Gotcha! Bam!
Not – I found both conversational crones tediously inane. Derringer Diane is fortunate that she wore a hat to protect her pointy pate. She is fortunate that I am Kind. And Sane.
But when people get all boasty and better-than-thou, my inner barometer yawns. It’s a pain in the butt to sit through such —-, and I don’t waste a curtsey as I rebound. And Walk. Away.
I don’t think I’ll aim for a coffee shop trifecta. I don’t want or need people of that ill ilk; I can’t let them cut my heart out.
My personality, structure, and reasons are fully-fleshed out. Inside is a content that doesn’t need to compete. I know that I am loved.