A good cry

Is there such a thing as a "good cry"? Andy would argue no, but I've always loved crying. 

As a kid, I would spend hours in front of the mirror contorting my splotchy face into the saddest possible expressions. The tears would start in earnest—maybe I was reprimanded for something or in a fight with a sibling—but after a few minutes of genuine crying, I would double-down with a solid half hour of wailing. 

I loved everything about those crying sessions. I loved thinking about how guilty the culprit must feel listening to my sobs echo down the hall. I loved the taste of my salty tears, which I'd attack with my tongue like a frog catching a fly. But mostly I loved the sympathy I got from myself. Nobody could feel sorrier for me than me. I was my own best friend, always there when my reflection needed me. 

Now I'm an adult and I've put those days of unabashed self-pity behind me. But when the moment strikes, be it a stubbed toe or sentimental TV advert, I can still enjoy a good cry. What can I say? It's a release! 

Today, just after I grated this guy's brother. 

Today, as I grated an onion for some fish curry, I felt heavy mascara tears stream down my face. My eyes stung bad and I ran to the bathroom to blot them with a hand towel. 

But on my way there, I couldn't help but catch a glimpse of myself in the living room mirror. And then again in the hall. Of course, the bathroom mirror sits right next to the hand towels. It's practically unavoidable. 

Cheers,
Margaret