Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Crying About Boys


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On a night out with my girl friends, the topic ostensibly and quite unavoidably steered towards lost loves and almost fairytale stories. I was a little dense that day and I just regained my orientation right smack in the middle of M’s diatribe about how stupid it is to cry about boys. I really have no idea what the premise was; I was busy thinking if I should order the four cheese risotto at Marciano’s. But as it happened, she was looking at my side of the table, although I’m sure the question was aimed at the group. Maybe, I was just guilty and felt like she was asking Me.
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Well, first, let’s define crying. Crying is a steady flow of tears as opposed to just Tearing Up where your eyes get watery but only a few tears actually fall. Crying though, is much sober than Weeping where you cry and you moan. Rant though is a whole new level of moaning and flailing and tearing hair and banging head against walls. I can safely say, I never ranted about boys and probably never will. But I’ve done more than got teary-eyed with frustration. I cried, okay? And maybe semi-wept out of self-pity. Blame the sobs. Who knew the more you swallow down the sobs, the harder it is to breathe? So you have to gasp, and the breeze aerates your vocal cords, and you can do the science. Huh.
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So for a millisecond, I felt utterly pathetic. Eeeewww. Then some self-preservation instinct took over and it told me that I shouldn’t be ashamed because:
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You learned from it.
You can now cry about bigger things.
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Good thing A also can relate with me. So we ended up No-Commenting the question. Because really, how do you explain why? Crying about boys is something you have to find out for yourself, because it’s different every friggin’ time. It doesn’t happen often, I don’t cry for every Dick, Joe and Harry that strikes my fancy. I don’t think I’m a hopeless romantic, just a dreamer – always have been, always will be. And in some level, I don’t regret opening myself to a couple of persons to the point where they could hurt me, and they did (unwittingly, of course, I hope). That takes some kind of stupid courage. Bravado is after all just a couple of letters away from the real thing.
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I’ll get to brave, don’t worry. And I might even have a motley collection of battle scars to show for it. Messy, true, but interesting nonetheless.

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