Turkeys Cry Too a.k.a. "I'm baaack."

Remember that movie “Broadcast News” where Holly Hunter endures a crying breakdown prior to every newscast, then emerges as a tough, hard-shelled broad? That’s what I do, but on a bi-annual (and at times tri-annual) basis. I had one of my semi-annual meltdowns last night—I cry, rant, and express all of the horrible fears that I squish into my nightmares during a year’s time. Then I feel guilty and remorseful for being human.

For the most part, these episoodies occur in private, although I must admit that Jack bears the brunt of such unexpected manifestations. You see, I pride myself on keeping it together, because as I remember it, outward expressions of negative emotions were strongly discouraged in my family. Oddly enough, humor can always be a safer, passive-aggressive (or even aggressively acceptable outlet) than truly expressed feelings. That’s the option I’ve chosen (often to my detriment) over time. Friend Jill said, “You always think of the perfect zinger right on the spot, but I only think of them later.”

I thanked her for the compliment, but reminded her that thinking of the zinger and then immediately expressing it has been the downfall of my personal and professional career. For example, I once grabbed the necktie of my hyperactively obnoxious boss at the conservative company of Kimberly-Clark, jerked him forward nose-to-nose, and hissed that if he would just shut up, I could correct the multiple mistakes he had made and was attempting to blame on me. Oddly, he staggered down the hall and never mentioned the event again. (Although, I did hear him squeak to a fellow manager, "She tried to kill me.") Yet, I was never promoted. Oddly. Now I focus on trying to keep my clever rejoinders inside of my toady brain. Sometimes I win; sometimes I don't.

In any case, I usually have the meltdown alone, wipe away my tears, buck-up and move on, but it takes a few hours of recovery. However, if someone haplessly wanders into the 24-hour recovery period, strange things might happen. As luck would have it, mom and older sister, Lynn, called amidst the event. My sister was a bit taken aback when I explained that I was in no place to hear about her current dilemmas, but she surprisingly called me back the next day and remarked that I sounded better, before asking my advice about which pies to bring for Thanksgiving. “Well I’ve brushed myself off and I’m starting all over again, as usual,” I said. That seemed to be enough of an explanation. We keep-it-all-inside people don’t get a lotta press or air time.

So I have been to the abyss and have slowly floated back to the top for a short while, before I get tired of treading the murky waters again, ask “why botha?” and instantly sink like a stone. I’m looking on the bright side; I had the meltdown before the Thanksgiving family gathering. Now that’s something to be thankful for!