Do You Ever Grow Out of Crying on the Street?

Asking for a friend...

Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash

It’s possible that I’m starting to feel the pressure of hosting a huge party on the other side of the world in two weeks. But really that’s just the latest excuse for chronic behaviour. No matter how touchy feely we may have become, crying in public is clearly mortifying. As a Brit, I’m meant to possess a genetically evolved stiff upper lip; as a former newspaper staffer, I definitely learnt that tears are verboten en plein air. During my decade dealing with people shouting in my face and managing frequent, yet unpredictable public shamings, I developed tactics to stop my tears in their tracks. What you don’t want to do is allow your eyes to prick or swim in the first place. You have to imagine that you’re in the desert and every drop of water is precious, as if you’re part of the Fremen on Arrakis. For non-Dune fans: imagine your eyes are dry as the Sahara, arid and tight. Then swallow down hard. 

While I have the capacity not to cry, I’ve learnt the repression comes with its own consequences (ahem, IBS) so I try and save my Sahara business for the most hideous of the inappropriate moments. The result of this strategy is that I *shed the occasional tear* outside of the house.