A Crying Day

I woke up late this morning after a night made restless by sore muscles and anxious dreams. Something in the air has been making me sneeze and my eyes were swollen and puffy, as if I'd been crying, and truthfully I did feel as if I might start crying for no good reason. I was due at the gym for a class on olympic lifting, so I put myself together the best I could and left. When I walked into the gym the real trouble started. Seeing my friends, who had not missed the workout, flushed with adrenaline and looking strong and ultimately much more stable than I felt at the moment, thoroughly derailed me. One of my closest friends was there and loudly mocked me for sleeping in. I was hurt, and she mocked me for that, too.  It was too much for me to handle, at least publicly. If I was unstable when I walked in, I quickly dissolved into a weepy wreck.

I spent the next two hours with a small group of friends, trying to concentrate on technique, and form, and trying not to let them see me cry. I hate crying in front of people even more than I hate crying. Just allergies, I was prepared to tell anyone who asked. They were all kind enough not to.

After the seminar, I had a birthday party to prepare for. I cleaned windows, scrubbed the bathroom, and wondered idly why I went to the trouble for sixteen nine-year-old boys. As I cleaned, I listened to music by thoughtful, cynical songwriters, with not quite upbeat tunes, and chorus lines of "we walked the plank with our eyes wide open," and "I don't even need your love, but you treat me like a stranger, and that feels so rough!" I struggled to steady myself. I tried to ignore the tightness in my head and the dry heat in my eyes that meant tears were ready and waiting. I hate crying.

By the time children started arriving I felt I could successfully pull off a convincing "laid-back mom" who is happy to open up her home to strange and loud children. Children who are picky eaters, or homesick or mean whom I can neither comfort nor discipline. I was prepared with six pizzas and enough Kool-Aid to sicken an army. The freezer was stocked with popsicles and three different kinds of ice cream. In the end, the children were far more well-behaved than I expected. The food went over well, and no one needed any discipline or comforting. I found myself wondering why the thought of children in my home is so much more difficult for me to handle than the reality.

And now, I am writing this catalog of my strange day for you, Dear Reader. There is a chicken roasting in the oven for my dinner. I can smell the salty skin toasting and crisping and soon I will hear the fat sizzling. The Professor has taken all the noisy children to a school park nearby to play 'capture the flag' in the dusk. The windows are open and a cool breeze drifts in. It is so quiet.

Thank God for children who are decent. Thank God for the Professor, who is strong and generous to steady me on my crying days. Thank God for roasted chicken and M&Ms and chocolate ice cream. Thank God for quiet. Thank God tomorrow is Sunday. I have one more day before I must pick up my life again.