Boo Who?

I started to cry this morning. Me, of all people. I had to do a check. Figure out what was going on. I'm not a weepy person. I generally cry through laughter or when Huckleberry Fox leaves the room after Debra Winger tells them she's dying; when he turns around and nods after she says she thinks that went okay -- ugh -- that always gets me. Of course, if something really sad happens, tears will flow. But outside of that, I don't cry much.

Please don't get me wrong. I haven't Botoxed my heart or anything. And I don't find anything wrong with crying. I think it's a great release. But it takes too much energy. When I cry, I cry. It comes from deep within. Eyes swell, nose runs, face gets red and puffy. It's pretty attractive. I'm not one of those dainty weepers whose tears flow gently down with nary a sniffle, easily blotted away with the corner of a hankie and can be camera ready thirty seconds after. Nope. Ice packs, cucumbers, cortisone shots -- that's what would be warranted to make me presentable after a bawl. Even then, I need a nap. Crying is draining. It's best to get it out on a Sunday afternoon, I think, then have a little nap and go out to dinner later. Kind of work your day around it. If only. Could you imagine: "What are you doing this weekend?" "Oh, you know the usual. Errands on Saturday morning, hair appointment then dinner and a movie. Sunday I'll be crying. Should be done by four. Want to grab an early dinner and try that new wine bar?"

The tears that came over me this morning weren't sad tears. They were sappy tears. I was simply sitting here, thinking about my friends. How wonderful they are. How much I adore them. And that's when I started welling up. Whaddafug?

(Seriously, I can hear tissues being pulled from the box by some of you, and vomit buckets pulled out by the rest.)

My first thought was, "Is this hormonal?" My second thought was, "Shit. This better not be peri-menopausal." But then I realized that I'm a little tired, had an up and down week, and my friends have been phenomenal. They've really rallied their support around me. And, see, here come the tears again.

They say you can't pick your family (well, Buddhists say you do pick your family, but that's a discussion for another day, because I still think my paperwork got effed up in that process), but you can pick your friends. I've picked some winners.

Oh. My. God. Here they come again! Jeebus!