Why I Can Cry At the Drop of a Hat (and Why, If You Have a Problem with It, You Can Go Fuck Yourself)

I cry a lot. Not that I walk around bursting into tears for no reason, but definitely more than average, and more in the past year than ever before. Marginally sad things have me digging into my purse for a tissue, and it doesn't stop there. A set of four-month-old twins in IKEA the other day had me sniveling, just because they were so cute and sweet being carted around on the fronts of their parents (baby carries are so cool). I ran out of power steering fluid today and couldn't steer my car, so Rob brought me some, and I spent the drive home welled up at his kindness. I even cried at the end of The Devil Wears Prada. (I have no idea why... I'm going to maintain it was the gorgeous makeup. Nicki Lederman, I want to be you!)

I was all but ready to check myself into therapy, but I realized I like being this way. I've softened. After four years of being on my own I can BREATHE and relax. It's ok. Everything is ok. I'm making up for a lot of "in your face" I had to put out there to get by. The need for me to be tough and stick things out on my own is over, and I'm happy. I'm mellow. I've got an ally to navigate life with, and it's awesome, and I can finally let go of being so tense. Rob rocks.

But seriously, if you catch me crying over a Lost Dog sign and dare roll your eyes at me, I'm going to punch you out.