Life's a Bitch and Then You Cry

Half-glassed is just that. Half. I have claimed to all the world (well, Bloggyland) to be an amateur optimist. I still do. Until I receive my professional certification and accept any compensation as a paid endorser of optimism, however, I think I'm entitled to a little whining. And, even when I do join the pro optimist tour, la caca will still happen. And I'll deal with it. Hell, I'm trying be more positive, not achieve sainthood. So, I'll just say it: Today I feel like crap. I have some kind of summer cold/flu/bug-that-has-kicked-my-ass-and-makes-me-hurt-all-over. I feel guilty because I feel sick. And then I feel guilty for feeling guilty. I feel hot and sticky and nasty in Columbia, South Carolina (aka the other side of the screen door to Hell). I want to cry and I feel guilty for wanting to cry and I feel guilty for feeling guilty for wanting to cry (didn't I tell you I was raised Catholic?) and that really makes me want to cry. So I do. And it makes me feel better, just like sometimes nothing else can. I often (OK, almost always) hate what little control I seem to have over my tear ducts. And then, I hate even more the times when I need the release and I cannot summon a cleansing sob. And then there are times like these: When my whimpering, simpering, foe becomes my familiar weepy friend. I welcome her, knowing all she needs is to get it all out of her system, so I let her. We both know that everything will still be there when eyes are dry, and, let's be honest, the headache is worse. But, we also know that the clouds will seem a little less oppressive, the load a little bit lighter, and deep breaths a little easier to swallow. And the next step (...and the one after that and the one after that and the one after that and the one after that and the one after that and the one after that and, yes, the one after that...) a little easier to take.