i imagine an actual alcohol-hangover is not pretty but in my book, crying-hangovers take the cake.
speaking of cake, i probably deserve some after just divulging into a whole new realm of vulnerability. how i hate being vulnerable. nothing about it appeals to me. i just feel fatigued with fragility as the superwoman facade fades, revealing a little girl trapped by breakable words and a tear tsunami.
these poor, poor men dealing with us women folk and our complicated emotions. crying in front of mr. k is nothing new, but i just sobbed-- gross breath-gasping sobs with snot in the mix. mr. k held me as i was, rubbing my back while pleading that i stop crying. he really hates when i cry. i don't blame him-- i'm not a pretty crier.
you know demi moore on "ghost"-- that single tear falling from her eyelashes, glistening in the moonlight? that is not me. a river runs through my makeup and smudges black all over, my eyelashes stick together and my lips always seem chapped. i need george to tell me i'm going to dehydrate if i don't stop crying before i scream "somebody sedate me". kidding. christina yang is the scariest crier in television history-- i can't compete with that.
where was i? ah yes. the men always hate when we cry. i think the testosterone in their bodies want to shun such a display of estrogen from us. when i cry in front of my dad he puts a stiff arm around me. my brother rubs my head. it retrospect it is comical how uncomfortable they seem with this crying business.
this is all to say i commend the men that don't run and hide when we tear up. i realize we women can be difficult and frustrating; our crying tends to brings out the awkwardness of men. but i promise that when we cry in front of a man it typically signifies trust. so please offer a sturdy shoulder to rub our mascara-ed faces on and tell us everything is going to be alright.