Wrapping, Tissues and Manly Issues

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First things first – shout out to my Homie Woo for coming up with this excellent blog title. She has all the bants.

Secondly, sorry I’m a little late with a post this time round, but I’ve been terribly busy both at work and in life. It’s no excuse I know, but I like to keep you up-to-date with these things. This weekend there have been mountains (both physically and metaphorically) and I am flumping about  like a wet noodle after 1x personalised yoga class (muchos enjoyment but muchos aching!), 1x National Trust visit (curtsey of our shiny new membership cards) and 1x ginormous hill walk (I hate exercise. I don’t think I tell people this enough). Still, time waits for no blogger so I must get on.

Initially, I would just like to tell you all that the preparation for Christmas this year has been ridiculous so far. It’s taken up an obscenely large chunk of my time and most of my living room (up to but not excluding our MINISCULE Christmas tree)

tree

Say hello to Tiny Xmas Sproot – he’s so small because Ross suggested we get a fake tree so as not to tempt the cat. To this I replied we would get a fake tree over my dead body and be damned the consequences. This is our final compromise. BuckyCat is mostly non-fussed, so I think we chose strongly.

I am doing terribly well though, even if I do say so myself. Only a few presents left to finish (the dangers of threatening people with homemade gifts), a bunch in the post winging their way to me and a small selection already wrapped! Admittedly, I have put an exclamation point there – indicating an excitement or happiness which is not necessarily the case as typically, wrapping presents  fills me with endless dread. Every year I think I’m going to love it and create beautiful origami-esque works of wrapping art that people will be loathed to destroy. What actually happens is I end up kneeling on the floor surrounded by 5 million misshaped squares of crappy wrapping paper that won’t fit anything and crying as I try to remove piddly bits of cello-tape from my hair. However it hasn’t come to that yet (though the presents I have wrapped are not the smartest) so I’m maintaining a forcefully positive outlook. This year I shall not be brought to tears by Christmas stress, but instead glide through the whole situation calmly and gracefully like a magical festive elf. So help me God.

Anyway, this isn’t what I was actually planning to talk to you about at all. Once again I have been distracted by festivities! What I really gathered you all here for is something that’s been on the fringe of my awareness for a while now.

Crying.

Specifically – boys that do it (or don’t).

It might seem odd to do a blog post on crying, but there has been an influx of videos on social media recently encouraging society to accept that it’s okay for men to cry and I have to say, I think that’s fucking fantastic. Considering crying is typically seen as a weakness; a reaction to a negative emotion or event, it’s a wonderfully massive coping mechanism. Sometimes there can be nothing more cathartic than the feeling of empty relief after crying so hard you get snot in your hair. Every now and then you just need to put your face into a pillow and wail, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Dudes feeling able to cry – excellent. Anybody feeling able to cry is excellent. I for one am marching in the “Yay for Crying” parade with my tear shaped banner held high.

Now it’s true I might be biased because I do cry at anything. Quite literally. I feel emotion towards the strangest things. Adverts, the bagpipes, cats, old people, young people, the weather, a particularly tasty cake, episodes of Due South**. You name it, I’ve cried at it. I tear up at least twice a day. I once cried so hard at the cinema during a screening of a Richard Curtis film I was nearly abandoned by my embarrassed film buddy and asked if I was okay by the staff (I was, but I had to be lead delicately to the car because of my swollen, tear stained, shrew-like eyes).

(**FREAKIN’ DUE SOUTH PEOPLE. I forgot how good it was. I am obsessed. I need to immediately leave real life and become a Mountie. Benton Fraser is my beautiful spirit animal.)

I’m pretty certain that for me, this particular trait has been passed down through the patriarchal genetics. I’m not arguing that my mum isn’t just as weepy, indeed we are both tearful land mermaids, but my dad is the definite font of my emotional outpourings. He will aggressively cry at anything and argue to the death if you tell him not too. It’s been very refreshing for me growing up to be in an environment where the manliest role model (which admittedly isn’t saying much is it, Stuart “the Fancy Man” Harding) is one that shows you it’s okay to let go every now and then. Indeed, crying together as a family in front of It’s a Wonderful Life can be terribly fulfilling. Whoever said crying is just for girls clearly hasn’t embraced the situation.

To be honest, I think the world would be a better place generally if people cried more. I’m not saying that I want everyone to suffer or to feel sadness at every little thing, but shedding the occasional tear at a strong emotion (be it joy, anger, frustration, confusion) shouldn’t be seen as a negative. Why be ashamed of something that comes so naturally?

people-cry-wallpaper

Johnny Depp giving us some deep and meaningful home truths

I know this had taken a bit of an unexpected turn, but Christmas can be one of the most challenging times for anyone and I think it’s time people realised that it’s better to share how you feel than plaster on a fake façade of fun. There is so much pressure to be as happy and as together as possible during December, and I know exactly how hard that can be (flash back to countless car journeys of me sobbing in the passenger seat about the most ridiculous issues whilst Ross gently pats my knee and makes soothing boyfriend noises). Sometimes, it’s okay to not be as “with it” as you feel you should be, and it’s okay to let people know that.

So feel free to cry boys (and girls). Cry at funerals, cry at songs on the radio, cry at a bloody advert about andrex puppies. It doesn’t matter what it is, just do it.

 

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