Keeping Calm

I've always suspected that most of my genetic heritage hails from some hearty, eastern European peasant stock. My people work hard, work long and die in their own beds in what seems like their hundred and thirties mostly from just being tired. My body is built for endurance not speed, and my emotional repertoire rarely swings outside ordinary limits.

I'm sturdy, dependable woman.

Maybe I hail from the old Motherland of England. . .keeping a stiff upper lip and all. It's that grand old virtue of middle class British folk who are occasionally perceived to be a bit {shall we say it?} reserved.

But right now, for just 15 minutes or so I want to be an African woman who howls out her sorrow. Or I want to be a woman whose lineage descends from Italy, whose blood flows warm and thick with passion and fire. A woman who doesn't give a shit what the neighbors might think and who turns the air blue with her cursing and her tears. Even the words that describe these women's expressions of sorrow sound expressive to my ears – ululating, wailing, keening, lamenting.

It might be what I want, however it's just. not. me.

The most I can muster are six or seven fat tears that flow hotly down my face and land in my bowl as I eat dinner alone.