Fuzzy
My husband’s nickname for me is “Fuzzy,” sometimes “Little Fuzz,” or “LF” for short. As in:
“Hey, Fuzzy, you ready to go to dinner?”
or
“Why you crying Little Fuzz?”
He uses it as a noun, but it’s really an adjective that describes my personality, which in a nutshell is ultra-sensitive and ultra-emotional (these are the difficult parts), but also very caring and nurturing and loving (the good parts, according to my husband.)
Being fuzzy is hard. I take the weight of the world onto my shoulders. I kind of need to be shielded from things (eg, violence in movies, the news), because if I’m not, I’ll obsess over something I see. Say a bad guy dies in an explosion in a movie (which I know is fiction), I’ll still think about his family, the people who loved him, how sad they must be. When I saw the movie Changeling (great movie, but a lot of pretty horrible stuff happenes), I went into a funk for weeks. And the things in real life that have happened to me? I cope best by not thinking or talking about them too much. Pretending, for the most part, that they haven’t happened. Not sure how healthy that is, but it’s the only real coping mechanism I’ve been able to figure out.
My husband’s personality is the opposite of fuzzy--he’s cool, calm and logical at almost all times. He refuses to get caught up in emotion. Which somehow works out. I get to be my artsy, dreamy, sensitive self, and he keeps us rooted in the real world.
One of the many things I love about him.
Photo credit: Jenny Downing.
