I don’t know that I was ever a crybaby. Tears were shed over injured pets. I would well up at the thought of speaking in public. Even the notion of an abandoned box of kittens would signal my nose to sting and burn. Still, I don’t think I could ever be counted in the crybaby population. I held it together through some embarrassing situations and never busted loose with a good wail in front of others. I never kicked and screamed or flailed my arms while uttering unintelligible insults at a perceived nemesis.
Have mercy! Wouldn’t it feel good to do that now? How freeing would it be to just belt out a resounding and leave-your-voice-all-raspy, “NOOOOOOO!” What thirty or forty-something couldn’t get some measure of satisfaction from a good, solid meltdown? We, in the heart of the South, like to call this a “come-apart.”
We, my friends, are due a satisfying come-apart. Here are a few things about which I would truly love to toss my head back, grit my teeth, and screech to the Heavens.
Dusting---I hate it. Sometimes, I would rather give away all my furniture and have to watch “The Walking Dead” sitting on the floor and holding my bottled water between my knees than have to dust one more table or shelf.
Being asked to pull down at a drive-thru--I do grit my teeth on this one. I also grimace. It isn’t cute.
The hamper--I want it to just spontaneously combust. No. Nevermind. It would just make more dust.
Spilling gasoline on my shoe--It’s always before work or shopping. Never have I had the good fortune to make this mistake minutes before a shower.
Cutting out coupons and forgetting to take them to the store--Actually, I may have cried a little at this one once.
Noticing, too late, an empty toilet paper roll--We need an app for that.
Flip-flop infractions--While not a problem exclusive to adults, having my flip flop stepped on from behind repeatedly warrants a small hissy fit. I am entitled to this fit because, as an adult, I have to replace it myself when it separates entirely from the sole leaving me to limp over asphalt that could fry a chicken.
Dropped calls--I have wasted more time talking to myself than I care to admit. That, alone, makes me want to cry out of embarrassment.
Falling--Again, not an adults-only problem. But, my word! That is a whole new world of hurt when you are over thirty.
Turning the car around two miles from home because I think I forgot something...then...discovering I didn’t.--There may be some tongue-biting involved here.
Misheard lyrics--I am notorious in my circle for this. The first time I was ever shown the lyrics to “Love Shack” and saw that “tin roof rusted” was not “Heeeeeeenry, rusted!” I wanted to cry. Like a baby. I was in my third decade. It was bad.
There exists a plethora of excuses I can find to throw a tantrum now that I am the adult and there’s nobody to redirect me. Losing my keys in my own hand, dropping my cell phone (twice in five seconds), spilling my own drink after telling my kids to be careful with theirs, and forgetting to put the lasagna in the refrigerator and leaving it out all night...all good reasons on the crybaby scale to come unglued. (All true and recent, by the way.) All good reasons to stomp, cross my arms, and slam my bedroom door. I suck it up, though. And why not? After all, isn’t that what “adulting” is all about?
Here’s to all of us making a crybaby list and laughing at it instead of losing our cool. We got this, ya’ll. We got this.