Confessions of a Crybaby


Last night, my husband found me sitting on the couch watching television in a daze, my eyes red and puffy.

“Are you crying?”


“Were you crying?”

(wipes nose, slips soggy tissue into shirt) “Uh….no, I most certainly was not.” (sniff) “Crying.”(sniff)
(a fat tear slides down my face)

“But it’s a commercial for car insurance.”

“I can’t help it, all right?! Just look at her!” (weeps) “Her name is Flo! FLO! She’s got a ridiculous beehive headband hairdo and she’s way too perky! I hate her with every fiber of my being! It’s so sad! Why do I dislike her so? I’m a terrible, terrible person!” (sobs)

“I need a beer.”

I’ve always been a big crier. When I was a little girl and witnessed any minor injustice at school–kids pushing other kids, kids not taking turns on the slide, kids not sharing their fruit roll-ups with…

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