CRY BABY CRY
On letting the tears flow. Sad pastry, sad sushi, and all the *funny things* we do to keep. it. together. Plus: last call for Write Now, starting May 28th!
I’ve always been a crier. And a messy one at that. I love the scene in the ‘80s film Broadcast News when Holly Hunter sets a timer for herself to have a good cry. She’s very organized about it. I am not.
As a kid, I didn’t understand how my friends could just cry and then go on with their day like nothing happened. There was no hiding my feelings. I couldn’t control them. When I cried, my whole face turned red, and my skin mottled, making me look like I had the measles. Well-meaning teachers and grown-ups only made it worse when they’d ask if I was okay. And the tried-and-true suggestions that worked for the other kids — like splashing cold water on one's face or a trip to the water fountain — did nothing for me.
I’m not sure what I was crying about back then. All I know is that once I started, I couldn’t stop.
I wish I could say I worked this all out in elementary school, but alas, I did not. I have had to learn how to stop the tears, lest I be the grown-up crying on a work call or on the playground with her children. I imagine myself like an actor who has to cry on cue, except I have a handful of tv and movie scenes I call upon to stop the tears.
Such as:
Elaine dancing. Never fails!
George Constanza’s answering machine song works, too.
“Believe it or not, George isn't at home / Please leave a message at the beep / I must be out, or I'd pick up the phone / Where could I be? / Believe it or not, I'm not home.” (Seinfeld, “The Phone Message,” 1991) Hugh Grant dancing to “Jump (For Your Love)” by the Pointer Sisters in Love Actually. Always a home run.
And of course, Rick Moranis in Ghostbusters. I just think of the colander on his head and I immediately shape up!
Over the years, especially during the last decade when my family seemed to face one medical crisis after another, I leaned heavily on these tactics.
I thought I was really clever to entertain myself with Elaine’s ‘little kicks’ when the doctors pushed me aside to intubate my son, Lou, hours after his first surgery for brain cancer. Rather than feel how insignificant I was in the saving of my baby’s life, I imagined what Jerry referred to as Elaine’s 'full body heave.' It kept me from falling to my knees in a puddle of tears.
Likewise, more recently, I amused myself with ‘I am Vince. Vince Klortho! Keymaster of Gozer!’ as the anesthesiologist slowly put me to sleep before my mastectomy. How had I gone from caregiver to patient? Surely this was a mistake. Thinking of Rick Moranis running around Manhattan with that colander on his head kept me from pulling out my IVs, as my child had once done in a bloody, tear-filled fit of rebellion.
My long-time therapist, Dr. C., is not impressed with my tears-stopping talents. He says it is dissociation. He ruins everything!
But I am wondering if my ways have perhaps finally run their course?
Not to TMI, but last week I had a medical scare. I had to go to the city for an endometrial biopsy (update: I’m fine!). I’ve had all sorts of issues since my oncologist put me in medical menopause two years ago to keep breast cancer away: erupting ovarian cysts, trips to the ER, and now a thickened uterine lining. I’d been a good sport, singing George’s answering machine song to myself while I underwent various undignified tortures, but this was one too many.
'Can you scoot down, honey? A little more? Even more?'
The nurse gave me a stress ball to squeeze. I squeezed it, to the beat of 'Jump (For Your Love)' while my OB pried me open: “Don’t ask. tell me how you. want me.” But Hugh Grant didn’t work. I tried Elaine. I tried George. Only to burst into tears, turning the entire, barbaric procedure into a full-on Holly Hunter moment.
Except unlike Holly, I just. couldn’t. stop. crying.
I cried the next day, too, at the breast center, during my labs, and during the most undignified shot in my ass. I cried down Madison Avenue. I cried at the sight of children in school uniforms and old ladies with big purses, at the horrific newspaper headlines, and at the packs of well-groomed dogs being walked by hired hands. I cried beneath my huge sunglasses, eating my sad pastry, hoping I looked like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's but knowing full well I was a full-blown measles person.
I cried outside the sushi take-out place, across town on Columbus Avenue, waiting for my sad solo sushi dinner. I chastised myself for being so self-involved, such a cry-baby! I called out for Elaine, George, the Pointer Sisters, Rick Moranis. But it was just me waiting for my sad sushi.
Sad sushi.
Just then, the concept of sad sushi was suddenly hilarious to me. What the fuck is sad sushi? Sounds like an emo band from Ohio.
“You all going out to hear Sad Sushi tonight?”
Or maybe Sad Pastry was better?
“Ladies and gentlemen, Sad Pastry!”
I stopped crying. It started to rain. The nice restaurant hostess came out and handed me my Maki Combo B with enough utensils and napkins for twenty people. I hobbled down Columbus Avenue with my sad sushi, stopping at the corner for more sad pastry for breakfast.
The city had that rainy night smell, like chalk. I couldn’t wait to tell Dr. C about my days-long crying jag, and how it had suddenly, miraculously stopped, like the rain.
I remembered the way it used to feel when I was a kid, and the teacher asked if I was ready to rejoin the group, measles face and all. I’d think about it for a second, breathing in the chalk, and the apple juice and graham crackers.
Yes, I’d say, wiping my eyes.
I’m ready.
A MEDITATION
May I cry. May the tears flow until there are no more. May I get it out so I can best show up for the day, for myself, for our world.
Feel free to leave a public crying story in the comments LOL or some of the *funny things* you do to keep the tears back. Favorite TV and movie moments for emergencies welcome! Aren’t we all just trying to find some joy?
Sending love, especially at this moment in our world. Have your Holly Hunter moments. Get it all out.
Thanks for being here.
xx Alexa
PS! Last call for my month-long writing workshop, Write Now. I won’t be offering a group container like this for a while, so hop on if you’re looking to (re)commit to your writing practice, we start this coming Tuesday. Payment plans available, email me for Q’s: alexa@alexawilding.com.
I really love teaching, and I’m so thrilled to offer this opportunity. One-offs and some more drop in workshops coming soon, too, but join us if you’re ready to Write Now, not Later! Ha.
(I’m nothing without my bad jokes :)
I would totally go see Sad Sushi or Sad Pastry!! Thank you for this as I am also a crying crier. I am the crying adult at work and the one all of my friends make fun of because I will cry for the silly-to-them reasons. I hadn't thought to stop myself, but I do tend to make jokes at my own expense when I can't seem to stop blubbering. Laughter - the best antidote.
As always, thank you so much for sharing, Alexa. My heart goes out to you thinking of the terrible day you had that led to your Holly Hunter moment. I wish I could have given you a hug - and I would have laughed with you about Sad Sushy and Sad Pastry (great band names indeed). Thank the Universe for humor and laughter!