At 1:15 this afternoon, I became that woman. And when I say that woman, I (sadly, so sadly) don’t mean anyone with hair even remotely resembling Jennifer Aniston’s (we all need a life goal, right?).
Nope, the woman I became was (perhaps even more sadly) that girl standing in that card store, weeping hysterically over a “Birthday – Sister” card. And when I say weeping, I don’t mean dainty, pretty little tears.
Not at all. Rather, these were big ol’ fat tears, the kind that drip on your blouse, stain your shirt, and cause the people around you to wonder if they should call for help. This, my friends, only preceded my complete meltdown in the “Mother’s Day – From Daughter” aisle, where I really let loose and gave in to the heaving shoulder kinda’ crying I usually reserve for special occasions – like a particularly good desert.
I stood there, sniffling (terrifying most of the other customers, who all immediately began hand-santizing and swine-flu-worrying), and trying to pull it together before heading to the cash. I waited patiently in line, wondering quietly if I had become that girl who’s just going to cry at absolutely anything, regardless of where she is. I handed over my two selections, thinking maybe I could learn to love being the weepy woman afterall, and tried to smile as I listened with confusion to the cashier’s perky chirp:
“That’ll be $15.86, please.”
“Are you out of your mind?” The words were out before I could think about them. “I only picked two cards!”
Ah, yes. So now, I’d become that woman, too. Crazy, tear-stained-face woman who’s too cheap to fork out for greeting cards that actually moved her to cry. Sorry Mom. Sorry Alex. But come on now – who are they kidding?
The rest of the afternoon spun by in a blur. No more crying, no more outbursts, just a lot of typing and such. I had almost forgotten about being that woman – or that other woman – when I stopped by the book shop on my way to the train to grab the new Nora Roberts.
“How’s your day going? Are you excited about getting home and digging into Nora’s latest?” the cashier man asked me.
Suddenly, it was just all too much (why did he have to be so nice? I would have bought the book without his friendliness!). Out came the waterworks as I handed over my credit card (again), nodded, smiled through the tears and mumbled out a “You’re so nice, and I really like your displays out front!”
Sigh. Maybe I am that woman after all. At least at the bookstore I had sense enough not to yell about the price. After all, weepy and frugal may be just fine on their own. But together, they – and I – may be too much for this poor world to handle.
