I cried at work yesterday. El número uno place for not crying. I was on the phone with a colleague when he asked me a pointed question and I started bawling. I tried to cover up with just replying in short answers–yeah, no–but instead it had same effect of weeping into a bullhorn. I was pretty mortified that I became so dramatically unhinged like that especially since I was on the phone and without a Nicholas Sparks book around for me to shakily point and whimper, “This story gets me every time! Every single time!”
I broke the cardinal rule for the workplace: don’t be the woman who cries, especially the pregnant crying woman whose unborn child probably has more maturity than she does. I can’t undo it, ctrl-z the ugly cry. And it was ugly–red faced puffy hyperventilating fetal position ugly. It took me thirty minutes to stop looking as red as the puppet from Saw.
I know my hormones are driving this crazy train. I wish A&E would add to their Monday lineup a show called, “Hormones,” which would have the tubular bells of Intervention and the dramatic opening narrator of Hoarders who always pronounces the title as, “HORRR-DERS!”
The show could feature hormonal pregnant women who fly into a rage when they can’t locate a pair of pants or when they go into the bathroom and discover that their husbands have placed the shower curtain rod so high that it leaves a five inch gap between the curtain and the tub, totally NEGATING the purpose of a shower curtain! There could be the screenshots explaining how many times these women yell, “I AM THE WRONG ONE!”
I think it would be really successful. Sorry I can’t end this properly. 2001: A Space Odyssey is on and I’m not crying, THERE’S SOMETHING IN MY EYE, DAVE!