Lachrymose

I don’t usually cry.
Ok, that’s almost a lie.
TV commercials make my eyes well up. This is the scene : over dinner, a teenager announces to her parents that later, her life dream is to become a doctor. (not for the status,or the money, no, to help put something back into the community.) The middle-aged, still remarkably attractive mum looks tenderly upon her daughter, then over at her distinguished yet loving husband. We understand that although they’re well off, some careful planning, even sacrifices will be necessary to ensure that their promising offspring can fulfil her dream. It’s the idea that a future is to be built that makes my throat constrict; then I swallow the imminent tears, because it’s really retarded to cry over a bleeding commercial.
If someone else is watching with me, I feel terribly embarrassed.

When I was little and I used to cry, my grandma would say: cry, you’ll piss less. It’s with such tenets of popular wisdom that I was brought up.

I am more than reluctant to show my tears. I have this idea that not only is it a weakness, but that witnesses to your tears will resent being exposed to them, cry for help that they are.
These days, even on days where my whole world feels like it’s sliding down the drain, my eyes remain dry.

Maybe I need a commercial break catharsis.