I’m a Crier

I cry at everything.  I mean, I don’t wail and sob, but tears come to my eyes pretty easily.  For those that know me, you’ve seen it literally, and without hyperbole, a million times.

Graduation celebration? I’m crying.

Wedding? Pass the tissue, because I always forget mine.*

StoryCorps? Forget about it.

I tear up at most American-centric songs.  I like them.  During the 7th inning stretch when “America the Beautiful” is sung, I cry, even if it’s a bad rendition.  Clearly I must be brainwashed** because a) I think our national songs are far superior to the songs of other countries and, b) I want to own a house some day.  Hey, I like my country…even though I do plot the governance and culture of my own nation-state…I’m currently trying to figure out how to properly handle the folks that don’t stop for pedestrians in crosswalks.  I mean, the standards to get a license in my nation-state will be much more stringent than the states’.  Plus, reliable public transportation coupled with a learned concern for our impact on our environment in my nation-state will ensure people will opt for alternative transportation instead of drive.  Despite these factors, people are human and sometimes their behavior is unpredictable, like ignoring the traffic laws…

I cry when I hear people have done amazing thing like the group of friends that organized to save the life of a young man in Haiti.  I cry when I try to retell the story, or when I try to tell any of them what an incredible thing it was that they did.

I’m tearing up writing this.

I cry when I see someone genuinely touched by something.  I was reading an interview I conducted with my friend Alyssa and she relayed the story of working in the Dominican Republic.  She helped pregnant women hear the heart beat of their babies and described how great that was…I teared up.

I have to say, it’s not easy being a crier.  Hey, you think I want to cry all the time?  I don’t.  I get ridiculed.  My coworkers and my friends give me a hard time.  They roll their eyes at me.  I feel their frustration.  “I feel their pain.”

John Boehner and I have at least one thing in common…I guess two.

*I love “hot yoga.” If you’re not familiar with this form of yoga, the room is heated to about 98 degrees or so and the flow is vinyasa, or power yoga, meaning you are working hard…you sweat a lot.  You drip sweat.  Despite the fact that I’m so great about scheduling this into my day, I would say about 80% of the time I forget to bring a towel to wipe off my yoga mat so I don’t slip and crack my chin trying to downward dog. Fine. That’s not a big deal.  I’m human, and resourceful.  I’ve used a spare tote bag I just happened to have lying around.  What truly freaks me out is that over the 2 years that I’ve been going to Amazing Yoga, I’ve only noticed about twice that someone else has forgotten a towel or one of those trendy little towel/mat things you put on top of your yoga mat. TWICE.  And I take note of this every time I go.

** If I’m aware that I’m brainwashed, does that mean I can’t be brainwashed in the first place?   Or, is letting the brainwashee know that he or she is brainwashed a new form of brainwashing?  Brainwashing and culture are apparently bed fellows, or slippery slope buddies.

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About reginadma

Hybrid Socialist dedicated to helping the community.
This entry was posted in Stories real & true & made up and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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