Not one to cry often, when I do, I make it a good one. Blubbering my whole 10 minute drive home, I plotted my plan of attack. How to release this brewing tantrum. Should I go for an angry run? Throw things? Have a relaxing soak in the tub with a bottle of vodk--I mean wine. By the time I parked my car and slammed the door satisfyingly loud, I decided a nice steamy shower sob would suffice. Nat would be upstairs in the loft. I'd verify we didn't need to be anywhere, then escape to the shower to wail away. I stomped into our house barely containing my cries.
"WHAT'S UP WOMAN?!?!" (That's what he says.)
"Hey are you coming up here?"
I knew if I spoke a single word, all would be lost. Suddenly, from a female voice.
"Hello. Nat's mother is here." I heard the proverbial record screech.
"Hi," I choked out.
"We're watching Rachel Ray."
"Oh... I love her." (To myself. $%&#!!!!) How was I going to cry now?!?! I slinked away to our bedroom, gently shut the door, sat in the middle of the bed, pulled the blanket over my body, hugged my knees and utterly sobbed, huge heaving sobs into my legs. Quietly that is. I knew I didn't have long. I'd have to pull it together. That thought only made me cry harder. A couple minutes later, the door opened. He sat on the bed and put his arms around me before asking what was wrong. Explaining the situation, I sort of felt silly, but he knows my desire to finish my BA. Wiping my mascara stained cheeks, he informed me my ring tone on his new phone was now "Im on a Boat." (Waaaait for it.) There was no way I couldn't laugh at that.
So I pulled it together, washed my face then showed it. His Mom understood my need for a good cry. And like a kid who gets ice cream after skinning their knee, Nat took us for sushi.
The next day I was able to re-enroll into the class.