So I’ve had this exchange recently with my mother via email. It’s not the sort of thing I want to share on this blog, but an offshoot of it is that we ended up discussing the fact that I am a big weepy crybaby.
It’s true. I am. Do you hear that? I’M COMING OUT AS A CRYBABY.
I cry at stuff all the time. It waxes and wanes with The Hormones a bit, but the underlying baseline is that if it will make someone cry, I will cry at it. If it won’t necessarily make someone cry but might, I will cry at it. If it will make only the most inveterate of wussy crybabies cry, I will cry at it.
I’m not saying I cry every single day, but sometimes it’s a crapshoot.
An excerpt from the email exchange:
Mother: You’re my sweet little crybaby!
Me: Delia has inherited this from me. You know what else makes me cry? Live music! WHY!!!
Mother: It’s all my fault. Did I not tell you stories of my tear-filled childhood?
Grandma would send me into the store in Wood Dale, a town of microscopic size where everyone knew everyone, with a list of items to buy and even then, insulated by the list, attended to by someone who knew me, no conversation required, I would STILL cry.
Live music evidently falls into the category!
So there you have it.
And? It’s the holiday season. There are HALLMARK COMMERCIALS. I cannot watch television for the next 22 days.