Hardcore fans of this blog (which don't, unfortunately, include my wife, who, as I write this, has yet to read the last post(sub-parenthetical statement: I just broke the record for word/comma ratio (not including lists (now I just broke the sub-parenthetical statement record!!))) know that I have been posting once a month pretty regularly now. The main reason for this is that I don't want to break my streak of months with a posting, which is now at 42. There is no other reason.
Every month I hem and haw about the subject of my posting. I don't like to repeat subjects very often, and don't want to write about sports too often and risk losing my female reader (Liesl). I also try to stagger my complaining posts, which are far too easy to write. My first thought was to write about how much I hated dogs. However, that violates the repeating principle, since I already wrote about it, even if I had new material. It also violates the complaining principle, because my last post complained about my former roommates.
My second thought was to post a cute video of Hendrik attacking a dog with love, which he does fairly regularly. This, however, is a cop out, and only gives my faithful readers 2 minutes of entertainment, instead of 10 solid minutes of entertainment on the first read, and then 10 minutes for every read thereafter (I'm sure you all read my posts dozens of times. No?). If there's a video post on the last day of the month, you know that I've ran out of ideas before the month ended.
Midway through this month, I had zero ideas. However, while listening to "Bound Away" by Cake, I came up with my inspiration. Unfortunately, it involves me exposing myself to my audience as never before. The only time I've ever been more naked than this was when my friends dared me to take off all my clothes during General Conference. I was around 5 years old, and in the basement with similarly-aged chumps. My family was in the living room, surrounding the monstrous 13" TV placed on a chair for the special occasion of Conference. It must've been a Sunday session, because we never moved the TV in for Saturday sessions, which were "optional" at our house. Somehow, I had friends over, which must have been some sort of coup since traditionally friends weren't allowed over on Sundays. NO FUN ON SUNDAYS was the general rule growing up.
Anyway, someone double-dog-dared me to take off all my clothes, and of course I did just that. I mean, what was I supposed to do? NOT FOLLOW THROUGH WITH A DOUBLE-DOG-DARE?!?!? There are really no other options at that point. All I remember after that was a whole lot of giggling about me being naked. Even though I had no clothes on, I still wasn't that naked. That came later, when my snarling mother found out about the double-dog-daring going on during conference, and I was dragged by my wrist up the 13 shag carpet stairs to the main floor and through the living room with all of the older siblings giving me looks of disgust and disdain for ruining Conference. They probably don't remember any of this, but it happened. Mom could've dragged me through the kitchen and dining room and avoided the living room altogether, but she wanted me to experience the Drag of Shame. Then I was dressed appropriately and disciplined by forcing me to watch the entire afternoon session, which was also optional.
So here I am, telling you the deepest, darkest secret you may not know about me. Well, you probably do. In fact, you probably won't be surprised in the least when I say it. You'll think, "Yeah, I already knew that." Which makes it that much worse. Okay, I'm stalling. Here's my secret:
I cry.
All the time.
Almost every day!
"What? No! Say it ain't so!" Calm down. Let me explain. It's not what it looks like.
I don't cry, like bawl or anything. I just get all choked up. My eyes well up. A tear may or may not escape. Sometimes it's enough to do the "cry hiccup", where I try to stifle my emotions that are running up my body and end up doing that hiccup type thing which makes it worse. My nose may release a sniffle. If that's crying, then I cry. Almost every day. I blame it on my mom, who cries pretty regularly.
I cry during movies. I cry reading articles in the Ensign. I cry when I "get real" with someone. I cry when I listen to particularly poignant songs. See the following examples…
Movies:
I really get into movies. If I watch a movie, it's like I'm in the movie. The actors are my friends, the story is part of my life. If they are mad, I get mad with them. If they rekindle lost romances, I'm happy for them. If they tell their mom or dad they love them, I think about how much I love my own parents. If they hug their kid, I think about Hendrik. If they connect with a love interest, I think about Melanie. If they say goodbye to their favorite toy, I think about Gibby, my first stuffed lion.
You're thinking, "Yeah, I do that, too, but you don't see me choking up."
Wrong! No you don't, tough guy. You're totally detached. You don't even care at all that Elizabeth Bennett has finally confessed her feelings for Mr. Darcy! You're just watching P&P because your wife is making you, and you're really just using that as leverage for the 8 hour NBA playoff marathon you're planning on watching tomorrow.
If you asked me which movies made me choke up, I couldn't even tell you. There's been so many. Most of them aren't even good! Pretty much any chick flick in which I wasn't simultaneously playing Civ IV. You know the moments where they bring up the violins and there's the moment where the burly, quiet dad tells the longing son, "I know I don't say it very often, and I should, but…I love you." It doesn't even matter if the rest of the movie was painfully awful. It still happens. It's why I don't watch "Full House" (that, and the fact that it's awful).
Fun fact: "Full House" is Baldwin's favorite show.
Melanie eats it up. She knows I do it, but pretends like she doesn't. "Oh, I didn't even notice." Or, if she sees it happen, "I think it's so cute!" Shut up, is what I say to that. If we're spooning and she feels me do the "cry hiccup", she'll turn around and play dumb, like she totally doesn't know it's happening. She gives me the same look that Hendrik gives me when "Elmo's World" comes on. Melanie is an emotional statue. She has never cried. Ever.
Kid's movies are the worst. I intentionally skipped these for the past few years, knowing that I would be watching all sorts of them once I had a kid. Having a kid opened up a whole new sentimental part of me, which I'm sure most of you parents understand. Despicable Me, Toy Story, Monster's Inc, etc, really get to me.
Ensign:
I read the Ensign every morning on the train. I'm usually sitting next to someone who probably sees the huge graphics and titles and is thinking "What is this religious nut reading?" I know I should reach out and share my testimony, but, you know, I'm a horrible person, so I don't. The articles that really get to me are the conversion stories about some poor South American 90-year-old lady that bakes bread for the sacrament every week and walks 2 miles to do her visiting teaching. It's always just so touching and inspirational.
I'm always curious if the person next to me can sense that I'm having a moment. There's not much evidence for it, but there are a few eye wipes and nose sniffles, so I figure that they think I have a cold, so I don't really try to mask it.
"Getting Real":
This doesn't happen very often, but as soon as I try to tell someone, especially someone I rarely "get real" with, that I appreciate them or that they did a great job, I get all choked up inside and have to look away to keep from them seeing me misting up. Last week, our babysitter of 1 year had her last day. She did a pretty good job overall, although we were about ready to move on. As she was getting ready to leave, I paid her, and then told her how much we appreciated her help with our son. It seemed simple enough. Nope. Made me misty. I cleared my throat and faked like I had to go do something urgent.
I usually do pretty well with goodbyes, unless my mom's involved. As soon as I see her getting misty, it's all over, including the crying. Nothing can trigger my tears like the sight of my mom crying. Or an especially stinky Hendrik package.
Music:
As mentioned above, the idea for this post was whilst listening to "Bound Away" by Cake. The song is for travelers, never home, and always bound away from their families by their occupation. Even though I don't travel for work, it still seems to bring out the wimp in me. I just imagine what it would be like to leave my family for extended periods of time and that's enough to get me all emotional. My imagination really gets the best of me, especially when music's involved, because there's nothing to do but listen and think.
Hymns and various classical pieces get to me, as well. Just yesterday, on Easter, we had a very talented member of the ward play a rendition of "O Divine Redeemer" on his cello, with some piano accompaniment. I struggled to contain myself, and if I didn't have Hendrik crawling all over me as a distraction, it would've been waterworks. I also tear up whenever we sing "Abide With Me, 'Tis Eventide", because that's my grandpa's favorite hymn, and I think of the old reunions when it would normally be the last song we'd sing before we departed.
Those are the triggers to my emotions. It's almost like Pavlov's bell with me at this point. Hit one of my triggers and watch me unravel. I'm so predictable. I started realizing it when I was about 12 years old. I remember when my dad said he was getting called as a bish, and for some reason I just cried and cried. Then during my Aaronic Priesthood ordination I pretty much cried through the whole thing. I hated the fact that I was so tender. I tried to toughen up-and succeeded-for most of my teenage years. That even lasted through the mission and through college. When I got married, there were a lot of moments that I had to keep it together, and for the most part, I did. Then Hendrik was born and it was all over. My heart was exploring uncharted territory, and I didn't know how to handle it. This time, however, I decided to just own it and let myself go. So, here it is, an official declaration of wimpiness. I hope you'll still be my friend. I don't think I could handle it if you weren't!
