Baby don't cry

Tears. I think it's the body's way of saying... sorry but I cannot cope anymore. Those little tear ducts act like a fuse, just so you don't blow the fuse. But sometimes we still blow the fuse, and it's ok. No need to get mad at ourselves for crying. Getting mad doesn't solve anything. That's why tears are basically salty water, there is a purpose for that. Water means we can go with the flow. It's our flow, and it's ok. Because if tear ducts are present in every human being, then they were made for a purpose. And I know all this, yet I don't want people to cry. They can cry as much as they like if they are crying with laughter. But we don't tend to cry all day with happiness. On the contrary, we cry all day because we're in pain, sad, broken hearted. And then, that is what soul mates were created for. Soul mates can do everything together, but they cannot cry together. Because when one is crying, the other is responsible for wiping away the tears, again, and again, and yet again, as long as it's necessary. I do not like to see my soul mate crying, because it means she is hurting. But I have to step up to the role of gathering all the tears and blowing them away. For as long as it takes. I've done my own crying. I've cried so hard that I couldn't open my eyes anymore. And although I would love to have magic Kleenex, that isn't possible. So I do the next best thing. I hold her hand, promise to be there and wait till all the salty tears evaporate and there are tears no more. And I'm doing nothing special, because she would do the same for me and more. Of course it hurts me to see her hurt. It makes me want to cry too. But I cannot allow myself that. Because soul mates do not cry at the same time. They cry together. And one day the same sun will shine on both of them.

The Brazilian

I realise we women go to great lengths in the quest for beauty. And we kid ourselves into thinking that it's for ourselves. I don't think it really is... for us. It's probably for our men, although whether they appreciate it is an entirely different matter. I cannot speak for them all though. I know a man who immediately notices any subtle change, the flash of a new shade of lipstick. And he's appreciative. For that man, I guess I should be thankful. But more often than not, we like the bad boys, the rogues, who make our life difficult, yet interesting. So there I plucked (pun not intended) up my courage and went for a Brazilian. Funny how Brazilians were a regular in my twenties and I could behave and take the pain like a big girl. Somehow it feels different once you hit thirty, the pain triples, and you cannot help your eyes water. Yet, no pain, no gain, that's how the beauty industry works. And with each hair that gets ripped out, follicle and all, you just want to kick the beauty therapist, I mean, kick her hard, knock her out. I've always wondered why they're called beauty therapists. Therapists, therapeutic, therapy, they make me think of this big tent in the aboriginal where pregnant women go there and just sit and be worshipped. So, a beauty sadist would probably be more appropriate. But, it's my choice, our choice, so if we let ourselves in for it, then just like childbirth, we must put up with the labour pains. And my guess is they also don't call them labour for nothing. So, Brazilian over. Kind of looks cute. Thought I'd get a lot of male appreciation for all my hard labour. I didn't. I got the exact opposite. One look of thunder and ok I know that somehow I've blown it. With this type of man it works like this... it's one look and you somehow can hear the thunder and pray to God he'll have mercy. Reasons... because it looks clinical, because it looks childish! Childish?? And there was I thinking it was dead sexy. Perhaps I'll live to tell another tale.