What was a Democrat supposed to do this week if she needed to get a few boo-hoo-hoos out of her system?
It was one of those weeks. I needed a cry, but I was too busy. So it sat in my throat, patiently waiting for me to have a free moment to let it all out. I went to bed on Tuesday night thinking I would have a reason to cry my eyes out on Wednesday morning, but that didn’t happen.
So, I had to get creative when democracy failed me.
I am proud to report that each of items in the list below allowed me coax that lump in my throat to come out as a cry, which was good, because it was hard to swallow pudding with a lump in my throat. And I love pudding.
I’ll start with the most gentle method to get a few weepy tears rolling, and end with the most potent way to have a full-fledged ugly-face cry:
- Get into your car alone for what feels like the first time since the Bush administration and listen to James Taylor sing Fire and Rain. “Suzanne, the plans they made put an end to you.” Just typing that line (hopefully those are actually the words, because that’s how I was cry-singing them) gets me misty.
- Walk through Old Navy with good intentions (to get your offspring some boot cut or skinny jeans), but detour through the maternity section. Grab the paneled clam diggers that are meant for someone with a baby in her womb, bury your face in them, and chant, “I will never be pregnant again.” (If you are extra lucky, James Taylor may be playing over the Old Navy sound system, but that’s doubtful. You are more likely to hear Taylor Swift, which might induce different kinds of tears.)
- While playing with your son (the one with the head that is in the 90th percentile), have him butt your face with his over-sized skull. Watch him laugh in amusement as you bawl while applying ice to your now-fat lip.
- Replay the following in your head over and over: a fight you had with your daughter (who is 3ish), where she acted like a total
assholethree-year old by throwing a full glass of milk across the room because it was 3 degrees too warm, and you, WONDERFUL YOU, retaliated by yelling hysterically, “What do I have to do to please you? What’s it going to take?” You get bonus tears if you recognize and own that you really wanted to say those words to your parents when you were a kid, so you are doubly devastated (1) that you never did; and (2) that you are now hoarse from screaming them at your beloved child, who was simply having an off night, but ended up having to bear the brunt of your childhood wounds.
- Imagine returning to your therapist’s office after his egregiously lengthy THREE WEEK vacation– focus on the abandonment feelings that came up as he was gallivanting around Italy while you were listening to James Taylor on repeat in the dark of your bedroom. For bonus tears, think about his payment policy, which requires you to pay for sessions even when he isn’t there. (If you want a crying companion, remind your husband of the payment plan. It’s fun to cry in pairs.)
- Stub your toe for the thousandth time on the door to the washer-dryer, which you always tell yourself to either fix or close properly, but you never do.
- Read some comments on your blog and realize that not a single member of your family of origin reads your blog, much less comment on it, and then extrapolate from there that they never loved you or supported you. For bonus tears: Read other bloggers whose mothers, cousins, aunts, and fathers religiously comment on their posts.
- Try on those skinny jeans that you know won’t fit.
- Tell someone who loves you (even when you are ugly and petty and self-absorbed), the mean stories you are telling yourself in your head. Let her kind words seep into your hurting heart and then feel the pain of being loved unconditionally even though you are a d-bag who has no intention of asking her about her day. Let yourself be loved even though you are broken and selfish and irrational. Think about what it means to have people like that in your life.
- Go to the bathroom, take care of your business, and discover there are no rolls of toilet paper, no tampons, no panty liners and no Kleenex anywhere in your house. (This works best if you are the only adult at home, it’s raining, and it’s after 10:00 PM.) Then, snuggle up with your paper towels, your chafed ass, and cry yourself to sleep. You earned it.