The Cryer

I’m not talking about the actor “Jon”, who played “Duckie” in John Hughes’ classic romantic comedy about a teenage girl from the “wrong side of the tracks” who falls in love with a boy from the “right side of the tracks” called, Pretty in Pink.

And no, I’m not talking about term for a female peregrine falcon or hawk.

I’m also not talking about someone who makes public announcements in public places (like a town, for instance).

I’m talking about “one who cries”… a cryer.

FYI, I’m a cryer.

  • I cry when I’m happy, and I cry when I’m sad.
  • I cry when I see that other people happy, and I cry when other people are sad.
  • I cry when I see Oprah on television. She doesn’t even have to be doing anything, or giving anything away. I just cry because she’s Oprah and she seems like a wonderful person.
  • I cry during commercials, and I cry during regular scheduled programming.
  • I cry when I stub my toe on our metal bed frame in the night (I also yell, “Mother Hubbard”).
  • I cry when I hear music that reminds me of a time or place.
  • I cry when my Grandpa says, “I love you” at the end of our Wednesday phone call.

The other day, while driving home from a (wild) weekend in Las Vegas there was a little furry something on the road.  The little furry something looked like it had been run over more than a few times.

I wondered if it was a wild animal – its freedom (and life) brought to a cruel, cruel end by deforestation and the destruction of its natural habitat (and an 18-wheeler).

I started to tear up.

Then I started wondering if the little furry something was someone’s pet – maybe their prized gerbil or beloved cat. And then I started thinking about the owner putting up “LOST” posters, feeling angry with themselves for accidentally leaving the sliding glass patio door open, even though it was super hot.

I reached for a tissue.

My husband looked over and asked me what was wrong. I told him it was probably just the start of allergy season. He passed me the tissue box, but I wasn’t sure he was buying it. So I told him that it was probably just dust from the road getting in my eye. He squinted his eyes and tilted his head, and gave the overall impression of disbelief. So then I told him that I had been cutting onions earlier. He nodded, but his eyes were saying: “You’re full of crap”. So I said that it must be the rain, getting on my face and also… in my eyes. He then pointed out that we were driving through the Mojave Desert and it was 100 degrees Fahrenheit outside and we were inside a moving vehicle.

I knew that he knew that I was lying so I thought the best thing was to just be honest with him (and myself) and admit once and for all, that… I’m a cryer.

“I’m a cryer.” I said, staring out the front windshield. As soon as I said it, I wished that I hadn’t.

My husband turned to me, “I know”.

“What do you mean, you know?” I had kept my dirty, little secret for nine years. I had hid tissues up my sleeves, in my pants pockets, and in my purse. I wore large, dark sunglasses even when it wasn’t sunny outside. I kept a bottle of eye drops with me at all times to hold up if anyone asked why my eyes looked moist (without having to say anything). And I never, ever watched Oprah.

“What I meant was… I played Duckie in Pretty in Pink.” He looked confused.

“And, I’m a female hawk.” He shook his head.

“And also, I make public announcements in public places, like a town hall, for instance.” I kept my eyes on the road (because it’s safer that way, obviously).

My dirty, little secret was safe, with me.


And yes, nowadays people spell it “crier” but I prefer “cryer” and even though my autocorrect keeps changing it into “crier”, I’m going to keep changing it back to “cryer” because I prefer it, and because it’s the original, old, English way.


3 thoughts on “The Cryer

  1. Mary says:

    My secret is out, my children discovered it a few years ago. I cry at parades. I mean really, how far is one kid meant to carry a tuba?

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