It’s no secret that I’m fond of a good old cry.
For me, it’s usually an instinctive reaction to an overwhelming emotion. A sudden rush of empathy for another human being, desperation at bad news or literally crying with joy. I’m a soppy old cow really. Despite some tears being shed in embarassing circumstances*, I credit my predilection for a good old blub as one of my more endearing qualities. It’s cathartic, provides an emotional release in much the same way as riotous laughter (another of my favourite things) and by all accounts it’s good for you.
Jo Brand recently made a programme on crying which I caught on BBC Four. Whilst I agree on all accounts that the outpouring of tears now a staple of primetime talent shows leave me unmoved, I did get on the defensive. Crying is great!
Strangely enough, I’m struggling to remember the last time I had a good cry. I’ve shed a tear or two so far this year, most specifically at a friend’s appalling behaviour on a night out (my tear ducts lubricated by shots, no doubt). But I’ll confess it’s been a while since the floodgates properly opened, complete with cheast-heaving sobs, mascara-stained cheeks and a snotty nose.
I suppose it’s almost masochistic to want to make myself cry, but I fancy it. Thusly, tonight’s shopping will consist mainly of gin and then I will watch some chick flick guff to see if it inspires a good old sob. Then again, the last Harry Potter is out in July and I know that is going to ruin me. Sigh.
*I cried at Rugrats in Paris at the age of about 18. My younger brother sat and watched me with dismay.