The Weird Kid

I have now, maybe always, an emotional thresh-hold low enough for a mouse to trip over. Four days ago I was Absolutely. Gutted. By. Dumbo. I started crying a little when poor Mrs. Jumbo (sweet and pink-capped, not like those vicious feather-wearing elephant whores she shared a train car with) kept hoping one of the stork bundles falling from the sky were hers, by they weren't. And kept crying at various times all the way through, sobbing during the last scene, where Mrs. Jumbo has a sleek private caboose and her perfect little flying baby slides into her arms. My only real break came from the shuffle and jive crows, those racist caricatured darlings, god bless 'em.

I had to keep from crying at Alison's wedding ceremony. So I stood next to her but tried to ignore her completely. Because that's the stellar maid-of-honor performance you get when you have Imez on your team. When she handed her bouquet to me to hold so she could take her husband's hands the whole room watched me give her a "Wha...what the fuck, what do you want? What?" look. See, my secret to not crying in any indoor situation is to find a light bulb, stare at it, and tell myself The Aristocrats joke. Don't break my concentration.

It wasn't just the wedding. Start with the jet lag of a week prior, and the heat, and start removing an asphalt chunk from the soul dam for my kid gone, my husband gone, my weight, my lack of success, my friends who I haven't seen in a decade and won't see for more, and take a supporting beam for when I walked across the reception foyer with my dress in my underwear. Kara's father, who performed the ceremony, tackled me like a crazed lover and threw me against the wall, to save me further embarrassment.

Turned out it wasn't my own strength holding me together that day. Pure tension, the stress of having to give a bridal toast at dinner. A toast that had to be perfect, because it is the only kind of thing I do well. Everyone else has a smaller waist and a bigger income, but this, this I can be the best at. And it was perfect. I was proud. And I sat back down. And the tension supports were gone.

And...I couldn't get hold. Started to cry and couldn't stop. Ran out during Alison's spotlight dance with her dad. In the bathroom it was hopeless.

The woman who does the make-up for Fox News did the bridesmaid's faces, Alison had hired her during one of her TV appearances. I told that pushy little spitfire I had a crying problem, but she still went with the Nefertiti look. "I just want your eyes to POP!"

So I looked ridiculous, black eyed like a Lil Rascal's sketch involving trick binoculars. When I tried to collect my stuff from the table my friends tried to pull me onto the dance floor. I resisted playfully, but they wouldn't stop, so I yanked my hands away very nastily. I wasn't playing. I was done. I was gone. I was empty and overflowing. I had to get away.

I missed so much that night by not being able to control myself. My friends laughed and enjoyed in each other until four in the morning, hanging out together in the Hilton's Presidential Suite. I didn't even get to say goodbye to half of them, the ones that had an early flight. I cried in my room for over an hour, pouring and pouring.

My trip wasn't even half over and I was all used up.