Road Warrior: The Suburbohemian has Feelings about Feelings and It’s Getting on Her Nerves

 The Suburbohemian would like you to know that she has NOT gotten in touch with her feelings.  Rather, they got in touch with her. They came bounding through the front door, plopped themselves down on the couch to watch re-runs of Law and Order and eat hummus straight out of the carton. They said “We’re gonna be here for a while.” They were comfortable with themselves, even if she wasn’t comfortable with them.

She always had a distinct preference for processing feelings through thoughts. Feelings were there, but thoughts had right of way. That sort of synthesis pleased her, even if it troubled the natives who thought it just wasn’t very feminine or warm or whatever the hell was more appropriate for humans with XX chromosomes.  After all, girls with opinions and analytical minds were not attractive. Or soothing. Or malleable. “Oh dear…” her mother would intone. The males she encountered took a sharper tone.


She paid them no heed because she had things to do and problems to solve. In the real world, with real people. She paid them no heed because the behaviors they were suggesting to her were as uncomfortable as wearing shoes on the wrong feet. And they weren’t very effective from her point of view. It just didn’t make sense.

Her analytical mind stood her in good stead. She was strong. She got things done. And then she didn’t.  Stuff happened. Lots of stuff. She could cry at the drop of a hat. Publicly, privately, at the most embarrassing times. There was so much misery, sadness (extra saline?) that just had to get out.

People told her this weepiness was natural and she thought “To whom? “  People told her it was ok, but she thought “Not if it’s making others as uncomfortable as it’s making me!”   After some persistent spectacular bouts of public weepiness and general tearing up, the floods subsided. It’s now mostly a private annoyance she can live with, but there is an uncomfortable residue.

She finds herself softer somehow and it makes her worry. Is she becoming silly, weaker…even feeble? Will she turn away from the dark, the complex, the multi-layered and challenging? Will she take up scrap booking, swaddle herself in sad pastels and natter endlessly about sharing and caring? Has she lost her edge?

 She looks up at the huge screen in the Hubster’s man cave and sees the road weathered  faces of the Sons of Anarchy Redwood Chapter members as they prepare for the final  season of brotherhood, bloodshed and hanging out with strippers.  Men for whom a day with  eye gouging and flesh burning is just another Wednesday.  She can almost smell the sweaty leather,  greasy hair and general man-funk emanating from the screen. It blends seamlessly with her bourbon and  cigar smoke. “The boys” are back at The Reaper’s table swearing their allegiance, their love and their  trust. Bobby’s eyes tear up. Chibs says “Tell us what you need.” Another chapter of breath-taking  violence has begun, but not before the emotional bond that binds them all is shared.

She turns from the screen, passes the cigar to the man who traveled with her through all the emotional overload.  He takes a puff and they simultaneously intone “Chick show!”

Yeah, she’s gonna be just fine.  She would to thank the Hubster for realizing her re-imagination of the SAMCO while reassuring “the boys” that this is an homage and nothing for them to get their rockers in an uproar about.


2 Responses

  1. Reply by Patty Harvey On October 13, 2014 at 12:08 pm

    Diana, I still love your meandering, oh, so poetic take on life. Weepy or not, rock on! Patty

  2. Reply by BA Norrgard On October 15, 2014 at 10:51 am

    I’m so happy you’re writing!! You’re awesome.