My mom is easily the most emotional person in our family. When I was a kid, she cried at the end of The Mighty Ducks because, “The family got back together, it’s so nice! *sniffle*” I used to be able to read an article about an abandoned seal cub without getting all fucking misty-eyed, but no longer (apparently, sheesh). Just thinking about something remotely patriotic or generous gets me a little choked up. WTF IS HAPPENING TO ME?!
This isn’t just a matter of “I don’t want to cry all the damn time,” it’s an identity crisis for me. I’m a tough teacher with a harsh opinion of people who don’t follow the rules inside and out of the classroom (I got out of two different cars and corrected two different people who littered on two separate occasions this week). I’m durable and strong when life gets hard. But ask me to describe the scene where Mufasa gets trampled by wildebeests, and Simba says, “Get up, dad…” and omg it’s puddletown on my desk.
I like to think of myself as an avocado; a bit of a rough exterior, followed by a whole lot of mush surrounding a hard core with the potential for growth. How did I forget about that mushy part? There’s so much of it. I don’t just have a sensitive side; I’m oatmeal disguised as gravel. Which sounds awful now that I’ve typed it (bleh gross).