I am a crier. A Crier.
I cry at weddings, funerals, baby showers, and graduations. Of course, those are appropriate times to cry.
I cry at the ballet. OK, reasonable. I cry when the underdog wins a sporting event. Mm.
I cry when "Night Moves" by Bob Seger comes on the radio.
I have cried in front of countless friends. I have cried in front co-workers. I cried in front of the former superintendent of one of New Jersey's state parks. I cried in front of last year's interns.
I will myself to not cry. I am a failure. I cry. I can will myself to not be ticklish, that's all.
I have startled myself while sitting in movie theaters and on couches, and feeling a solitary tear form and roll down the cheek opposite my companion. That's the best I can do.
I am relieved when I meet another crier. Once I went to a meeting of the Princeton Photography Club to see a documentary photographer speak and show his work. I wish I remembered his name. His work was incredible. He made photographs of migrant farm workers on the west coast. Many of them had high levels of pesticide exposure, and thus cancer, terrible forms of cancer, and babies that were, how do I say this, babies that were incomplete and sculpted in ways babies should not be.
I am crying now.
"Sorry," I always say, "I'm a crier."
Not anymore, though, because my seven year old who insisted, insisted, insisted that he wanted ALONE TIME!!!! just finished showing me his latest artwork. Now he is laying on the couch next to me with a box of crackers. As he eats, he kicks the couch and says, "Am I annoying you yet?" Repeatedly.
On our first hike at Arches, Jared turned around, smiling. He pointed his camera at me, and lowered it. I was crying. "Take a picture," I said. I covered my face.