Everything Makes Me Cry


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Everything Makes Me Cry

It was a typical day for me. I was sitting there sobbing hysterically over something I can’t even remember because it probably had no relevance at all whatsoever. My boyfriend was standing over me with a what-the-fuck-am-I-supposed-to-do, forced grin and his arm slowly extending toward me with the same caution of someone about to touch a venomous snake. Obviously puzzled by my sudden outburst of tears and snot, he began attempting (read: failing) to console me.

Him: “What’s wrong, babe?”
Me: “Ew. Don’t call me ‘babe.’ And nothing’s wrong.”
Him: *pats my back slowly and cautiously*
Me: *swats him away* “Don’t touch me.”
Him: “Did I do something wrong?”
Me: “No. I just. I don’t know. OKAY?”
Him: *sits next to me*
Me: “Maybe I just need to be alone right now.” *doesn’t actually want to be alone*
Him: *leaves room*
Him: *rolls eyes, shoots self with finger gun*

God bless his precious soul. I tried to explain that literally everything makes me cry. And not “literally” in the metaphorical sense—“literally” in the literal sense. Being sad makes me cry. Being happy makes me cry. Being angry makes me cry. Being hungry, full, fat, skinny, pretty, ugly, EVERYTHING makes me cry. Except sex. Minus the kind with my mouth on his genitals. Or, like, if it was super beautiful and touching sex, if that exists outside of rom-coms.

I can’t say that I’m mad he doesn’t get it because, truthfully, I still don’t really get it. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want him to get it. Nor does it mean that I won’t cry more when he doesn’t get it. After all, a guy should know what’s going on in your head when even you don’t. That’s the basic requirement for being a boyfriend. Duh.

Honestly, I don’t know what happened. It’s like turning 21 not only made me a legal drinker but also a lethal crier. And I know I’m not the only one. I’m not the only one bursting into tears at the generic love-story ending of book. I’m not the only one fixing her mascara in the visor mirror after a sad country song plays, which is all of them really. I’m not the only one in the theater sniffling when the guy dies takes off his shirt. Why can’t I have love sex like that? I’m not the only one sobbing when Becky totally blew me off for Sally and LIED about it. Actually, they invited me, but I forgot because I’m a horrible friend so now I’m crying because I’m the worst. Ugh.

There is one redeemable part to crying: mastering the “pretty cry.” But, as you know, this isn’t the easiest thing to do, and it’s definitely not natural. Every girl is an ugly crier—don’t try to say that you aren’t. Pretty crying takes practice, commitment, and perseverance. When you feel the tears coming, you have to suppress the sinking feeling in your gut and brandish a smile. Smile wide like your boyfriend is proposing—in France. Smile genuine like you just saw a baby giggle for the first time and everything in life suddenly became so much more precious. Combat the sobs with every ounce of happiness you can muster. Dab your eyes and give a sweet, little, this-is-so-silly laugh/sigh of relief. You’ve got to sell that you’re okay before you can excuse yourself to the restroom to “check your makeup.” Once you’re there, cry your heart out, pull your shit back together, wash your face with ice cold water—so much swelling—and completely redo your makeup with extra contouring. Now, try not to cry at how proud you are of your recovery because dayum girl.

Alas, while we can all learn to live with crying, and even be pretty while doing it, it’s never going to stop being a part of our lives—especially during those nine months of hell and once every month before and after. Yes, ladies, I’m admitting it. PMS and plain, old M make us cry like no one’s watching when, in fact, the whole room sees us blubbering like idiots. That’s just life and will always be life. We’ll cry about everything—the literal “literally” everything. When we start college and when we leave college. When we break up and when we find love again. When we fail the exam and when we miraculously pass the class. When all the good Lilly is picked over during the sale and when we get our best finds in the mail the next week.

Maybe one day I’ll understand why I cry so much, but until then just ignore me and let it happen, dammit.

Who said you can't be smart and funny? When I'm not writing for TSM, you can find me studying into oblivion, downing a bottle of chardonnay, and/or sobbing for reasons I have yet to understand. All hate fan mail can be sent to premed.donna.tsm@gmail.com.

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