We were at dinner at a sushi restaurant, and I could not stop crying.
First off and foremost - I have noticed, in my old age, that I am becoming...how shall I put this...mellower in general, but much, much, much less mellow...periodically. As in...hormonally periodically. I've heard that PMS tends to get worse as you get older. Or at least, that's what a doctor told me in response to my complaint about periodic crying fits. At which point I cried. Again.
A few months ago, I was facing the prospect of moving. Again. At the time, I didn't know what I was going to do, or even what I wanted to do. I was mainly focused on the idea of boxes, hauling things in and out of rowhouses and a moving truck, and the expenses incurred with moving. AGAIN. The thought of buying more packing tape made me want to hang myself with it. (THAT SHIT IS STRANGELY EXPENSIVE.)
With all of this crap raging around in my head, the BF and I decided to go to a nice dinner to relax and get my mind off of these issues. Which, any other night, would have been an excellent idea. And I can almost always be soothed with sushi.
This turned out to be one of those "I have absolutely no control over my emotions" nights. It started off innocently enough; we sat down to dinner, opened our menus, and BF calmly inquired about my epicurean and alcoholic wishes for the evening and I felt it. That uncontrollable waggle of the lower lip that occurs right before a full-on sobfest. He looked at me inquisitively, and it all just sort of...came out.
The kinder he was, the more I cried. The more sushi we ordered, the more I cried. I could no more stop the ocean of blubbering tears that came out then I could hold up the Hoover Dam. After a bafflingly short period of time, it occurred to me that I was crying so hard because I was crying.
And then things got worse.
BF calmly sat there, sipping his Kirin, waiting for the storm to pass. The staff scurried around us, not wanting to get too close, but also not wanting to miss the show of a girl crying at dinner. It was at this point that the sobbing got out of control when I realized:
"You...are being...so nice to me...and..." I couldn't get the words out. I tried again. "You...everyone here thinks...that you are...an asshole...because I can't stop crying!"
I was wailing at this point.
BF blinked. And then composed himself a microsecond later. "Well," he said, "I guess I hadn't thought of that until you mention it...but...yeah, they probably do." It was an attempt at humor. It made me cry more. Here was this poor guy who just wanted to make me feel better, and I was making him look like a complete jerkface. In my mind, everyone in the restaurant was glaring at him.
"How dare he make her cry like that?! AT DINNER! That poor girl."
I'm pretty sure no one had this thought:
"How dare she keep crying like a jerk, making him look so bad?! AT DINNER! That poor guy."
Although I could be wrong. I sort of hope I'm wrong.
We finished Worst Dinner Ever (which was actually delicious, if not a bit tear-soaked), and I had segued to the hiccupy-slowing-down part of crying where you either need to immediately pop excessive amounts of Ibuprofen or go to bed right away before the migraine sets in. BF decided that the best course of action was a movie, preferably something not too mentally taxing, so that I could just mellow out and be entertained. Secretly, I think he thought he had a better chance of surviving the evening if we were in a dark public space where I would be forced to stifle the sounds of my crying and no one would mistake him for a jerk.
To be fair, after some delicious Dark + Stormies at the theater (they make doubles - thank God) and Contagion (which is absolutely not too mentally taxing yet highly entertaining), we actually wound up having a very pleasant evening. By the end of the night, it was almost forgotten that I had been Crying Girl At Dinner. Almost.
Thankfully, I moved, mostly unscathed, and for the last month or so there have been no more crying fits. At least not ones in public spaces. For that, I'm sure we're all thankful.