The 40-Something Ridiculous Crying Thing

It took me by surprise when I went to have a tire patched at Pep Boys last year and drove home from the experience in full, wailing, sobbing, freak-out mode.  Because as much as I have banned myself from ever crying with eye makeup on, it turns out my desire for mascara-free cheeks is no match for 40-something hormones.

I had a nail in my tire, and it was deflating quickly, so I needed to stop by Pep Boys.  When I got to the service desk, they told me it would be about an hour.  An hour later, they told me another hour.  An hour later, they told me another hour.

Meanwhile, everyone in the waiting room around me was watching videos on their phones of TruTV or something similar, where the shows consisted of people screaming and being chased by the police, and for some reason, all of them had the volume cranked to 10, on phones that were seemingly made entirely of broken speakers.  It sounded like a room full of robot parts being dragged across a floor made of chalkboard.  You know, in a bad way.

(Oh, hey, side note:  When watching a video on your phone in a public place, turn the volume down to a respectable level, you goddamned animals.  Literally NOBODY wants to hear it.  Also, don’t say, “Oh man, you gotta see this!” and then make someone watch a five minute long video on your phone when you’re just out to dinner.  NOBODY wants to have an unscheduled five minute long video thrust upon them when they’re sitting at a restaurant.)

I’m hypoglycemic and my blood sugar was starting to get really low, so I reached for my emergency snack in my purse only to find it wasn’t there, so I had to make do with eating sugar packets from the free coffee station in the waiting room.  As I tossed back the sugar packets like someone throwing handfuls of dead mullet at a sea lion’s gaping maw, I couldn’t help but feel it was a classy move by a classy lady.  /brag

When the service guy emerged from the bay three hours later, he handed me my keys and sent me on my way.  I pulled out onto the road and immediately made a wrong turn, which meant I would then have to make a U-turn.

That was it.

I immediately burst into tears and started sobbing like I was having a nervous breakdown.  This went on for the entire thirty minute drive home. I cried so hard that I had burst capillaries around my eyes the next day.  I cried so hard my neck muscles were sore.  Because making that wrong turn was just IT.  Five minutes after I got home, I was fine.

A few months ago, I got into my car after work and burst into tears for literally no reason.  Then I cried even harder because I couldn’t figure out why I was crying and sobbed and shouted at myself, “I don’t know what’s wrooooonng!!!!!”  Five minutes after I got home, I was fine.

More recently, my boss emailed me a couple follow up questions on a long project I had just turned in.  He asked nicely, as always, because my boss is actually a really fantastic boss.  So anyway, he asked nicely, and then the tears started welling up in my eyes, and I had to leave the office to go collect myself in the ladies room before I completely fell apart.  Because he asked me a couple follow up questions.  Nicely.  Five minutes later?  Fine.

One day I was watching a duck waddle across a street, and I burst into tears.  Totally fine five minutes later.

I have melted down in the past year because the dishwasher had clean dishes in it, because that meant I had to put them away, and I was not emotionally prepared to put the dishes away right at that moment.  Sure, theoretically I could just put them away later, but in the meantime I would sit on the couch and it would just gnaw and gnaw at me that I was lying around doing nothing when there was work to be done.  Basically, I cried over clean dishes because I have a really good work ethic.

To summarize, these are the situations that will make me cry in my 40s, along with a visual aid of Dawson from Dawson’s Creek to demonstrate the crying scale:

(1) Making a wrong turn:

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(2) No reason at all:

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(3) Being nicely asked a couple follow up questions:

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(4) Ducks:

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(5) My own work ethic:

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The only thing they have in common is that five minutes later, I’ll be fine.

40-something hormones?  You figure that shit out.  I have to go make sure that in the past five minutes I haven’t started growing a mustache and a dumpster ass like Mike Ditka.

The Dimpling of My Discontent

I live in Florida.  I own no shorts.

Why don’t I own shorts?  That’s a really valid question, what with the “Florida” thing and all.  I would probably be much more comfortable in the summer when it’s around 5,000 degrees outside with 5,000% humidity if I could just throw on a good ol’ pair of shorts.

I don’t own shorts because my thighs look like a Christmas advent calendar where behind every dimple lies a trinket of horror.  THERE.  Are you satisfied?

I, dear friends, am a suffereur of cellulite.  It sounds fancier if you misspell “sufferer”, doesn’t it?  Like auteur, or provocateur, or whoeur.

I really shouldn’t beat myself up over it, I know.  I should beat up all those cruel, evil people who have smooth thighs, especially the ones who are like, “Oh, you should try working out!”

Screw you, Patsy.  I work out two times a day like a freaking racehorse and that stuff is still very much present and getting worse by the year.  I’m sure at this rate in another ten years I’ll have to get rid of even my ankle-cropped pants and just wear a long tube of fabric that ties off under my feet and I’ll have to crawl across the ground like an inchworm to get around.

“You should cut out dairy!”  Yep.  Tried it.  No dice.  Still dimpletown, but then the matter was further complicated by not having access to those little Babybel cheeses that I crave night and day.  I’ve gotta tell you, dimply and angry are two bad looks that look bad together.  You can check the research on that.  It tracks.  Sometimes cheese is the only thing that gets people through the night, you heartless bastards.  Don’t take it away from innocent people who are just trying to live their lives when your science is junk at best.

Oh, oh!  And you people with your “Well, I guess I must just have good genes!” can go cram it, too.  Are you saying that I have bad genes?

Because I do.  Nice catch, there!

If you put my DNA under a microscope it looks like a couple of rabid raccoons went crazy with a trash can full of expired silly string and Mountain Dew at a Pink Floyd laser light show.  I’m surprised my internal organs are even on the inside at all and I don’t just have to wear them around my neck like a charm necklace.  I truly, deeply, envy the posture and physical grace of the average gutter possum.

My bad romance with this dreaded dimply condition started when I was 11 years old, when I weighed less than 100 pounds, and was very physically active.  One day I looked at the side of my right thigh and went, “What the hell is THAT?”  It happened at a water park, too, with witnesses.  I wanted to deal with this humiliating matter as reasonably as possible, so I went back to the water park later that night and burned it to the ground.  I put up a tombstone where it once stood that read “RIP Maggie’s Non-Dimpled Thighs 1976 – 1987”.

I hate to be Negative Nancy here, except that I don’t hate it because I excel at being Negative Nancy, but I’m here to tell you that there’s no hope.  If there’s a cream, gel, patch, lotion, exercise, diet, witch doctor, magic spell, or animal sacrifice that’s been purported to reduce cellulite, I’ve tried it.  I’ve tried it and it failed.  I should have just taken all the money I doled out for these remedies and spent it on something that actually makes me happy, like another vintage Donny Osmond lunch box or my drinking habit.

So far the best solution I’ve found when faced with bare-thighness in daylight with witnesses is to create a diversion on the other side of the room, back slowly out the door, and run for my life.  This is why I carry a sack of pre-filled water balloons and an airhorn with me at all times.

I tried throwing a handful of sand into the other person’s eyes one time like a cellulite ninja, but that got “hostile” really fast.  People are all, “Oh my god you threw sand in my eyes!  Oh mother of all things holy!!!  I’m blind!  I’m bllliiiiiiiind!!!!!” and you’re like, “Did you see anything before the blinding?!!  This lighting is really unflattering in here you know!”

I realize that literally 90% of all women have cellulite, and that it’s perfectly normal and something that nobody should be ashamed of, but how is it that all of the women who don’t have it are the ones who end up on television, in movies and magazines?  If you follow the stats, that means every single woman who doesn’t have cellulite ends up being famous.  That’s science!  Or photoshopping.  Either one.  My math may be slightly off there, but SO WHAT?

Do these women have a secret club??  Is there a special knock that leads to a secret room filled with women have the thighs of young amphibians?

Because we need to find that room, and lock those bitches in.