Tuesday 4 May 2010


I cry easily. I mean really easily. I can see something when I’m walking down the street and next thing I know I’m tearing up. I’m not bi-polar or anything (although I fully sympathize with those that are), I just have incredibly easy access to my emotions. I remember this one time I was passing a petting zoo in the park, and a little blind boy was petting a lamb for the very first time – hold on, I have to get a tissue. The look on his smiling face, the sheer joy and elation at feeling this animal’s fur for the very first time, well it sent me into an outright puddle of tears. And by the way, if that mere sight doesn’t stir any emotion in you, I’m slightly worried.

My partner loves it when I cry. He’s not sadistic, I assure you. He says he finds it cute that I’m so passionate. This fact I cannot escape. Trust me, I tried for years when I was young, as having emotions brimming under the surface was a shock to my teen system – was acne and trying to fit in not bad enough?? My boyfriend in college used to hate going to movies with me, cause he said that every time I left the theater I wanted to take up a new cause, be it environmental, political or the socially conscious. After seeing Roger & Me, I wanted to picket the GM headquarters in nearby Detroit (I was at school in Ann Arbor at the time); and of course after ‘Finding Nemo’ I decided that keeping fish in tanks was barbaric. Then again, I think my feminist stage post Thelma and Louise was the most challenging for those around me. Coupled with my newly declared major of 'Women Studies' where I'd scream about the oppression of women, well, I was not such a joy to be around I'm thinking. Although don't get me wrong, I still think the treatment of women round the world is pretty pathetic.

Then I realized, if I could harness these pesky emotions, I could work them to my advantage. I quickly noticed that it helped with singing, writing (if I cry when writing a scene, I know I’ve nailed it), even domestic disputes – as I said, some men are suckers for tears. I think it freaks the hell out of them especially those men that claim they never cry. I of course take this as a challenge and make it my quest to see if I can find the thing that will make them spill forth. Okay, mildly sadistic, but I consider myself doing them a service of opening up their emotional channels.

Certain things, thank god have mellowed with age. In short, I just don’t have the energy I used to, to take up every cause and shout it from the rooftops (although this blog ain’t such a bad platform). However, as for my passion, it is still live and kicking. Our house is a hotbed of debate sometimes over the global to the utterly pointless – i.e. cleaning a mirror in the correct manner so as to prevent streaking [As you can see, my partner shares my sense of passion. God love him]. Clearly it was a slow news day that day and we were aching for some sort of debate.

My sister has started referring to me as Mary Poppins, because there is not a day that goes by that I don’t email her about some discovery I’ve made – be it the ridiculously mundane ("I just had a strawberry that tasted like a pineapple! It's some new hybrid fruit.")  or some new grand scheme or goal I’ve set for myself. But in these times, I think why the hell not. I think getting excited over the little things is a good thing, and there are a lot of amazing little pleasures out there to behold. And of course I happily remind my partner that he should be thankful that he's with a woman that is made happy by a nicely buttered crumpet and not a nice buttery new Chanel leather bag! (although I’m sure that would make me smile as well. I’m not a total moron.) I figure, when it comes to the big things – like childbirth – my mind is really going to be blown. Hell, beats a life of disappointment. 
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