Sob Story

Since moving to Boston, I've posted my fair share of crazy T stories, mostly about the ridiculous riders that make me wonder how they get through life. 

Oh, but this next story isn't about those people. . .it's about me.

A few weeks ago, when I got wind that Borders might be going under, I panicked because I had several gift cards from various holidays. I'm more of a Barnes & Noble shopper myself, so I always forget to use them. Needless to say, I made the executive decision to spend all of it. At once. One of my purchases was a pre-order of Jodi Picoult's latest book. She's one of my favorite fiction authors and one of the few whose books I will actually buy instead of just borrowing them from the library or something.

Apparently I placed my order just before it came out because within 2 weeks it arrived in an exciting Borders package in the mail ( I adore getting packages in the mail) .

The first day I decide to read it,  I get on the train and crack it open. As with every Jodi Picoult novel, the story is timely, poignant and about a very emotionally charged topic. as I eagerly turn pages and am lulled into a reading rhythm by the sound of my music and the sway of the train, I reach a particularly painful part. And I start tearing up. Not, like, oh, I'm a little misty eyed let me blink it away. Like, tears are forming and I'm about to start crying in earnest.

Let me interrupt myself here to tell you a little factoid. I'm a crier. Movies, TV shows, commercials, greeting cards, books, little kids singing at church. You name it, I've probably cried over it. Once there was a particularly poignant commercial about a handicapped girl joining a swim team that had me in a salty pool every. single. time. 

My friends take great pleasure in teasing me about this. I think part of it is just an emotional response to other things. It's hard for me to break down during an tense family or friend situation but somehow it feels safer or easier or better to lose it while reading the note my sister left in my christmas gift, or while watching Up (that movie is so terribly sad, I don't care how cute Russell is or how "happy" the ending. Anyway, another post for another time)

So, there I am crammed on the train with dozens of other bleary eyed commuters. Crying. I try to pull it together , breathe deeply, blink rapidly, stop reading, think about happy things. I get a few strange looks, but manage to compose myself. I slap the book shut, no more Picoult on the T. Except it's so good, and I have to read it on the T or I won't have time. So last night on the way home from work as I devour another chapter, it happens again. Tears, and more weird looks.

And then--it hits me. I am now one of the crazy people on the T. Because I'm not just reading on the train, I'm reading and I'm crying. 

I might have known this day would come. . .

Thankfully, I don't think it was really memorable enough for people to remember me. I might still be able to regain my aloof, city chic, commuter cool, if I just stop reading on the train. I've got a reputation to protect, after all!