This is how I feel about change — let’s called it Exhibit A:

I left my beloved 1-inch Sedu clipless curling iron at my parents’ house in Atlanta and decided to buy myself a new one, but this time opted for the 1.5-inch iron. My reasoning made complete sense in my head. One day — probably next December — I will be reunited with my old iron and who wants to have two of the exact same iron? Not me, I say. Plus I watched a video comparing the two sizes and I was oozing envy for those lovely loose beachy waves. So, my new iron came. I unpacked it with abandon and curled away. Only, wait, what, hold the phone, stop it right there, WHAT IS THIS LIFE? This new iron doesn’t fancy holding a curl exactly so after 25 minutes of careful curling action, my hair looks, um, kind of exactly how it looked before I began the curling process. Only, perhaps there was a teensy bit more body. Maybe? If I pretended.

So then I cried.

Yup. It’s safe to say that change and I are not like My Buddy and Me.

(source)

So, with lots of changes happening around here, there’s also a lot of, um, eating cookie dough and emotion. I AM KRISTEN BELL AND THE SLOTH. When she said, “If I’m not between a 3 and a 7 on the emotional scale, I’m crying…” and while everyone else was all Oh Poor Kristen Bell is a Legit Crazy Person because it was before she was Anna I just sat back and thought—THIS.

I cry all the damn time. I cry at happy things. I cry at sad things. I cry when I feel emotional. I cry when I’m tired. I cry when I’m angry. I cry when I have PMS. I cry when I find the perfect dress. I cry at goddamn Folgers coffee commercials. (Bonus tears for holiday ones.) And I cry when there’s CHANGE. Like Kristen Bell, when I’m not between a 3 and a 7 on the emotional scale, I am crying. Although if we are being honest, for me it might be if I’m not between a 4 and a 6.

So, it was obviously a good idea to run out to see The Theory of Everything on Sunday night. I swear to you, you guys, I Claire Danes Cry Faced through the entire emotional rollercoaster. I have wanted to see three movies for what feels like a very long time. Birdman. The Theory of Everything. St. Vincent. That husband of mine, well, he promised that he would take me to see at least two of them. But then I saw Annie. And then I saw Night at the Museum. THREE. And then I saw Into The Woods.

This is called Parenting, my friends. Oh, that’s funny, you thought that never sleeping again is the ultimate parenting sacrifice? Nope! It’s a) having the Wizards of Waverly Place theme song in your head all the livelong day and b) having to see Night At The Museum. At least three different versions of it.

So, after weeping my way through an extremely wild and intense Packers game this weekend, I decided that instead of parking my heiney and watching (my boyfriend) (Marius) Eddie Redmayne wear a velvet jacket on the Golden Globes red carpet (which he totally did — he always does), I was going to watch him for a full two hours on the big screen. I allowed my husband to come with me, because I am a giver, and I needed someone to drive and buy the popcorn. The romance is alive.

I happy cried. I sad cried. It’s safe to say that I was not prepared emotionally for this movie. (Either was the over-perfumed man in front of me, for the record.)

I cried about not being able to use the white towels because they are only for show — I basically live in the Arrested Development model home. I cried that I cried because dinner was deli subs on hot dog buns and I was all this isn’t a meal I didn’t marry a Master Chef Canada finalist for nothing. I cried about not being home when my kids get home from school three days a week. I cried about being forced to sleep in an uncomfortable trundle bed in my basement because the current king-sized bed is only a facade — i.e., just two boxes thanks to the magic of house selling. I cried because I have written or used my camera in over a week. I cried because both Josh and Emily made the basketball team. I cried about the cold and the snotcicles — why do I choose to live in a place where my snot freezes? 

And, of course, I cried about the damn curling iron.

Of course I did.