At Least There's No Tears

I thought I had told you fine people about my crying jags.  Apparently not, as a quick search through the archives of this little masterpiece assures me.

For years upon years upon years, I almost never cried.  Once, maybe twice a year would something strangely wet escape my eye.  I call these the over-medicated years.

Once the meds were gone and the feelings were back, I cried at every damn thing I laid eyes on.  Mark Greene dies on ER?  Hefty sobs.  Those Hallmark commercials at Christmas?  Weeping.  The end of just about any chick flick?  Almost inconsolable.

Finally, I've settled down to my routine, occasional wet eyes.  Except.  Every time I went to Seattle, I would spend at least the first two days in tears.  Not because of anything, but I think because I finally felt safe and free and able to express what I was feeling.  I hold a lot of what I think and feel inside of me, I guess.

(I know, what irony!  And here I write about myself all the time.)

Now that GPOM's been here for a week, and there's only been one time where I welled up unexpectedly, I think we're finally home.  But I'll let you in on one secret shame - I cannot get through a Taylor Swift song without crying.