CryBaby

I cry. A lot. It’s just who I am. I cry when I’m happy (like when I see Vicki walk down that stair-ramp onto the tarmac at Homer’s airport, knowing that my best friend has finally arrived). I cry when I’m sad (like when my firstborn baby girl gets on that plane that will take her three thousand miles away and I know I won’t get a chance to argue with her again for another 12 months). I cry when I’m proud (high school graduations get me every time!). I cry when I’m mad (anger drips from my eyes every damn time). I cry. A lot. It is one thing that sets me apart.

Honestly, I’ve never known anyone who cries more easily than I do. It frustrates me. The tears come at the most inconvenient times. I hate it. I wish I could stop it. I can’t. It’s who I am. I fear that they show weakness.

The one word that has been used to describe me more than any other word is “brave.” That seems funny knowing that I’m such a crybaby. I’m crying as I type this. I feel things deeply. More deeply than most, I suspect. Does that make me weak? Not a bit. Brave? Absolutely!

Tears give me strength. I’m not sure how that happens, but it does. Every time. The tears always bring clarity. I suspect that Kevin, who has been mentoring me on running the business this summer, worries at my tears. He has surely seen me cry more than anyone in my life with the exception of my children. That’s because the past 60 days have brought more happiness, sadness, pride, and anger than any other time in my life.

The tears have been there. I try to hide them. I go outside by the recycling shed and look up at the sky and wish them away. I walk into the walk-in freezer and try to dry them up in the bitter cold. I stare at the ovens in the bakery, with my back to the restaurant, cursing the damned tears running down my cheeks.

It’s just who I am. It doesn’t mean I’m weak. It doesn’t mean I need some time away. It simply means that I care.

I cry. A lot. It’s just who I am