crybaby. crybaby!

My mother tells me that I was born with a frown on my face. I came into the world silently, narrow-eyed and my mouth set in a grim, straight line. Apparently, when the doctor gently smacked me on the bottom to get me crying, my mother said I made a tiny whimper then glowered at him, like the two of us were about to fight like men. This makes sense, as most of the toddler/adolescent photos of me consist of two expressions: (1) frowning and (2) coolly eyeing the camera, like the two of us were about to fight like men. Continuing on, as a teenager and then a young lady, my mother repeatedly told me to stop looking so “fierce.” All this considered and as such, I wasn’t much of a crier.

Yep, Baby Gangsta.

What a difference 30 makes. Something funny happened to me when I reached 30 a few years ago. The floodgates, so long ignored–except for the first day of school, K-12-college–were unleashed, rendering me into an emotional, utter basketcase. I found myself crying at everything. Not just moments that deserve tears, like rainy days, Mondays, and This song. Everything. Happy moments. Commercials. Television shows. Friends talking to me on the phone. Everything. Four years later, now and today, this odd, strange exercise in shedding so, so many tears hasn’t changed. It’s worse.

What is it? Weird hormonal stuff? Sad estrogen? It’s not that I mind it, per se, being that, to me, shedding tears is part of shedding skin, letting out, accepting, cleansing. But what do any of the latter things have to do with an Oreo commercial? Or someone telling you how good you look in a dress? Or just driving? Seriously, I cry like a madwoman behind the wheel. Just random moments of endless tears with no real cause (traffic gets more of an endless pounding on my steering wheel, in case you were wondering).

I remember an old friend telling me the following: “You know, [Kitten], sometimes a woman just needs a good, long cry. For no reason. Just a good, long cry. I cry all the time and so should you.” At the time, I was 19 years old, and although I was slightly enamored of her awesomeness, I still decided, however intriguing those words were, that she was a giant weirdo. “A good, long cry”? Why? For what? Even when, during my senior year in college, I threw myself on our kitchen floor and bemoaned all the classes on my schedule that semester–to which my mother succintly informed me to get up, I would be fine, and that I was on the precipice of a bleeding ulcer if I didn’t stop; did I mention how much I love my mother?–I don’t recall crying about it. I just bemoaned. Little did I know how I would take my old friend’s words to heart when 30 came, except all the crying occurred more frequently than not, and seemed to be against my will.

According to this article, there are four main reasons why we cry: natural emotional response; survival mechanism (in other words, something in your environment needs to be addressed); biochemical (a release of stress hormones/toxins); and social function (you draw support from those who see you cry). None of these really explain why the kid in the Cheerios commercial makes me weep. Of course, the article stressed that whatever the reason, don’t suppress it. Let it out. I agree, even if I don’t always understand the triggers.

So, go on and cry, my dears: in your car, into your soup, over that Cheerios commercial, when you find that sweater you were looking for, because it’s Thursday, in the morning, and at night. I certainly will.

rain=brussel sprouts.

I detest brussel sprouts. My feelings about rain, then, are obvious.

However, because we’re all about self-psychoanalysis on here, and because gritting my teeth each and every rainy day (and subsequently ruining my teeth, in the process?) is getting old, I need to figure out why I’m so anti-rain.

(It will rain all week. All week. I seriously considered finding a therapist.)

Is it the clouds? I’m in love with the sun. I’m in love with light. I’m in love with a shiny, sparkly day, and when that is stolen away from me because of those voluminous things that hang above my head, I gets angry. And so, so sleepy. The clouds invariably steal my energy. And my will to wake up and be an active participant for the day.

Is it the black sky? The sky was meant to be blue. Or coral-y and golden and pink, as the sun is setting. Those are the only hues I will accept. I cannot accept the foreboding and queasiness that come with a black sky. I naturally want to hide under the covers and stop thinking about stories I read by Edgar Allan Poe.

Is it the umbrella? Kudos to the inventor of the mighty umbrella. Thanks for that. Unfortunately, the umbrella rarely works for me. I struggle with it because I’m sugar and cannot melt, which means the rain cannot touch one part of my skin, but I never succeed in my struggle. Small or large, the umbrella usually gets blown every which way by the wind, which gets me wet, which gets me angry, which has me shaking my fists at the heavens. (I do this mentally, as directing fists toward the sky does not bode well in public.)

Is it the mood? It gets me down. Enough said.

Is it the memory? I went for a walk one day. It was sunny and beautiful. At the beginning. Moments later, the sky turned black, the voluminous clouds appeared above my terrified head, and I.was.drenched. Literally, I was heavy with rain. Worse, as I slowly made my way back home, I was repeatedly splashed with puddles from the nearby street, courtesy of drivers that threw caution to the wind and were driving like mad. (And clearly gave no heed to hydroplaning, not that I wished that on them or anything…)

So…

This brief list has done nothing for pychoanalysis. I hate the rain even more. I am reminded of why I grit my teeth, why I think of brussel sprouts and every other cursed thing, why…

But, for the sake of positive thinking (since I do that negative thinking stuff so, so well)–

Flowers grow.

Dry, rough ground is saturated.

The animals on the ground need a shower, too.

The sound  of rain (when I’m safely inside, or trying to fall asleep) is simply amazing and does wonders.

Um, thinking of more…

There are plenty of awesome songs about rain, which is a good thing. One of my favorites:

“Laughter in the Rain,” Neil Sedaka. Soft rock goodness.

Cute raincoats, which is always a plus.

Despite my little cold heart, there’s something kind of romantic about walking in the rain with your beloved other, I guess. I mean, I would have to be fully covered, but I get it.

So, there are six great things about the rain, which outnumber the five facts things I listed in the beginning. Not bad. I can’t be blamed, however, for shaking my fists at the sky as this rainy week progresses, though.

For my readers, what do you particularly enjoy about the rain? Or do you even enjoy the rain?

Cheesy Goodness!

That would be Phil Collins. In the vein of my music entries this week (totally unplanned, mind you), I deem this Phil Collins day. People decry his musicality; his talent; so on and so, so forth. Who cares? He’s amazing. He was amazing with Genesis, amazing on his own, everything. I so enjoy him. Right now, this one is playing in my ear: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQK6CGqGleI It makes me want to…I don’t know, buy a gingham dress and skip down a sunny avenue somewhere. (I’m really quite ready for some psychotherapist to stumble onto this JournaBlog and request that I sit on his couch and discuss some of this imagery I tend to associate with music). Anyway, yes, woo hoo for Phil Collins.

While we’re on Genesis, let’s make this Peter Gabriel day, as well. Red Rain? Red Rain? I heart it. In Your Eyes? IN YOUR EYES? I need not say more. Here’s one where Phil was still the drummer for Genesis and Peter was singing lead. Great harmony. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ko0hiIYGANU

What else? Nothing. I’m restless. Impatient. Feeling like I’m on the cusp of something and I’d like to jump in, but waiting for the very important push. (Intentionally vague, yes). Standing outside an open door; can’t move until I get the nod. Yes, that weird feeling. Knowing that I may not even get the opportunity to jump over or walk in, certainly a possibility, but wanting to know just the same. One of those days.

Ever stared at the computer so much that it seems like you’re shrinking? Or that your chair is descending to the ground? I have to get up now.