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Health & Fitness

I Get So Emotional Baby....

I fancy myself a tough bitch. 

A born and bred New York City woman who can step over a drunk body or a dead body with the same indifference. A woman who can command a sidewalk elbowing folks out of my way like bowling pins while making my way from point A to point B.  A woman who will give a crying baby the side eye ('you better stop making that noise'). I am not emotional on the inside or the outside. 

Talk is cheap. 

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During this special, oh so very special decade, I have taken to crying unexpectedly, instantly and at great shock to me and everyone around me. It's freaky weird and embarrassing. I never know when the water works will start. It could be something as normally horrifying as the loss of a love one or as outright stupid as not being able to find the right birthday card. For a kid. Who is 1.  

I have always prided myself on facing life realistically. To me, there was/ is no crying in real life; at least not in front of others. Crying was for the weak. That was something you did behind closed doors, preferably in a bathroom while berating yourself for it. You take a moment, shake it off, re-apply your mascara, return to the situation to the life at hand. Chop chop and all that. 

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Ah, the good old days. 

Those stupid Hallmark commercials, any commercial involving family/sentiment/feelings receives a watery salute. The video where the momma dog adopts a slew of mewling kittens receives a ghostly tear track. Any video where a serviceman returns home and surprises his young children at school...you have to pry the kleenex decorative box out of my shaking hands. The moment when I return home and realize the cashier mistakenly forgot to pack my jar of mayonnaise for my tunafish pasta salad...well, I think hysterical weeping leading into hand wringing leading into 'why God, why?' might be a bit much. 

I actively work against it. When I realize that for whatever ridiculously insane reason I am starting to blink rapidly to prevent another damn burst, I pinch myself. To draw blood. Or step on my own foot. Or bite my tongue. Or think of something really nasty disgusting (having sex with my Ex) or really hysterically funny (having sex with my Ex). Either way it works like a charm. Sure. 

Actually, there are seemingly positive aspects. The massive amounts of water have proven to be a plus for my skin. The tears have proven to work for me in certain public situations ("Oh my goodness lady, it's okay, it's okay...here, I'll just include this cookie with your coffee since we don't have any more organic napkins"). The salt is amazing at removing waterproof mascara. Really.

Cry me a river? *shrug* My damn pleasure. 

xo,

Fabulously Fourty(ish)


*This fabulously fourty(ish) is going to partay for the holidays like a fabulous twenty(ish). Hope you do too. See you on December 27th.*
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