I was arguing on the internet again and wound up looking up the Phoenix zoo’s Operation Oryx (credited with pretty much single-handedly saving the Arabian Oryx from extinction and eventually leading to the reintroduction of the species into the wild) to prove my point and choked myself up doing it.
There was this stretch after puberty when I never cried at anything. I used to roll my eyes when my mother went through a box of Kleenex watching Out of Africa. Now I tear up over all kinds of stuff. You put the Dalai Lama on the radio for five minutes and I’m sobbing into the steering wheel. If I ever need to make sure my tear ducts are working, thirty seconds thinking about the scientists who were frantically saving golden frogs in advance of the fungus that was wiping them out will leave me no doubt whatsoever. (Don’t even get me started on movies. Kevin and I didn’t last five minutes into Up without bawling…)
Thing is, it’s not even BAD stuff that does it. Tragedy leaves me glum but dry-eyed. It’s when we do GOOD and people don’t suck that I turn into a puddle.
I don’t think I’m depressed or crazy. Maybe I’m just getting old.*
*Insert obligatory beating from readers who consider 33 barely old enough to dress self reliably. Mea culpa.