This past Saturday night, I cried at a comedy show. I know what you’re thinking; oh she laughed until she cried, how nice for her. Um, no. It was, no doubt, an emotional weekend with the whole marathon Sunday hurdle to face. No, I wasn’t running in it; I was running from it. Two years ago, to the day, is when I discovered my ex was lying… on more than just me.
Let’s just say I slept in come this Sunday, hoping to avoid the discs of swinging medals and foil wrapping capes. It didn’t quite work; Linus needed a walk. We hit Riverside Park; it seemed safe enough. The crowds, posters, bananas, and Poland Spring bottles would be in Central Park. Riverside was littered with marathoners. Oh joy. I sat on a bench and cried.
It wasn’t the kind of crying that comes pouring out in the middle of a run, or when you feel betrayed, despondent, or cranky. It was a peace offering really. I was somehow making peace with myself, on a bench, in the crapass park, as I watched a grandmother push a pig-tailed girl on a black rubber swing. I was in sneakers, clutching my knees in a hug. I’m going to be okay. It was a milestone.
I don’t miss him or our life together anymore. It was a day of introspection and assessment. How far have I come in the past two years? I’ve learned how to be a provider of my own happiness, the kind no one can ever take from me. I’ve learned to recognize the patterns I take which haven’t proved successful in the past. I’ve learned how to walk away from things that aren’t good for me, despite how much I might like them. But it’s all learnings from the past. I hope next year this time, I’m learning from my present, and that I’m learning new things which have been foreign to me up until now. I’m hoping to approach a whole new set of things to learn.
So why the hell was I crying at a comedy club? Because I was proud of a woman I hardly know. A woman from my Monday night writing class performed a story on Saturday night, and as she beamed on stage, I beamed in my dark seat in the corner. I was proud, so proud of this woman. I know so little about her, yet I feel like I’ve known her for years. And here’s what’s strange. If I had written this about some guy, I’d be waving red flags, analyzing the shite out of myself. But since it’s a woman, there’s no need for excuses. Maybe it’s the intimate bond that’s created by writers who “get” what you do, or maybe it’s just a crush. Either way, it was touching, important, and made me feel good. So I cried. ‘Cause that’s what I do sometimes.