I didn’t think I’d cry.
That is a complete lie; I knew I’d cry. I always cry when goodbyes are said and … when my last day of work at a job I enjoyed rolled around, I knew walking in that morning that the odds were quite high that I was going to get extremely emotional before the day was over. (Just an FYI—this was my last day at my day job—I’ll keep writing this column for as long as the newspaper will have me.)
My husband’s last day was also (recently,) and he didn’t cry at all, not even a sniffle. If anything, he almost skipped to the car after turning in his work issued keys. Not because he didn’t like his job and the people he worked with; he did, but retirement is something he’s been looking forward to since his first job at a 7/11 when he was 12 years old, a time when child labor laws were clearly not strictly enforced.
Fast forward 50-plus years, and you can see his point.
I know there are people who don’t mind goodbyes. I understand there are folks who want a retirement party and who enjoy going around hugging the people they’ve had lunch with, joked with and talked about the boss with on a regular basis.
Those are probably the same people who never feared having to read a book report in front of their sixth-grade class and who excelled at selling Girl Scouts cookies or Boy Scouts popcorn. They are most likely also the types who have cubicles chock full of knick-knacks, an extra set of walking shoes and enough snack items to feed the entire workforce should there be a catastrophic weather event.
I’m not part of that group. For as long as I’ve held a job, I have kept my office items to a bare minimum, just in case I got fired and had to leave right away. I suppose that shows a solid lack of self-confidence in my job skills, but it also shows a bit of prescience because getting abruptly canned would definitely turn on my waterworks. On this, my last day of work I was able to empty my desk in under five minutes, fitting all my personal stuff in my purse and a Walmart bag.
Really, what I should have done was remember what an emotional mess I always turn into when it’s time to say goodbye. Then I could have shown up with a box of Kleenex or a box of wine. Perhaps both. Fortunately, my former coworkers know what a crybaby I am and kindly looked the other way as I snuffled out of the building.
I know there’s nothing wrong with crying at emotional moments. My problem is that once I start crying, I can’t stop. I have the same problem with laughing. There have been far too many instances when I have been in a public place and have gotten an attack of the giggles that simply won’t go away.
Laughing uncontrollably in public is just as embarrassing as crying uncontrollably in public. Actually, it’s worse because certainly a person old enough to collect Social Security should be able to stop a gigglefest before snorting loudly enough to cause heads to turn.
I’m going to blame my ever-present hyperemotional state on my star sign. As a Cancerian, we’re supposed to be emotional. My husband, a Virgo, only gets emotional when the Bears win. Sometimes I envy his stoicism, but me not crying — or laughing — under certain circumstances seems about as unlikely as waking up and fitting into my junior high wardrobe.
Truth to be told, I don’t really mind being a highly emotional person. Laughing until you cry or crying until your nose runs feels pretty good once it’s over. You’re exhausted, but it’s a nice kind of exhaustion, like taking part in a marathon without having to deal with the Charlie horses.
The next time I have to say see you later to anyone or anything, I’m going to be better prepared, I’ll be sure to bring along the Kleenex. And the wine. And maybe a Sven and Ole joke book, just to keep things even keeled.