I’m a bit of a sap. I tear up easily. In the past week, I’ve gotten misty-eyed over the following things: Michael Jackson’s funeral, The Wiz, sad animal stories, tearjerker songs, my dad’s health, being bored and lonely, boys being jerks, and nothing. As a kid, people used to chastize me: “You’re too sensitive!”
I also get worked up over things that are not sad, but adorable instead. Or a bit of both. Such as last week, when I was getting my tattoo. The tattoo shop was in a second story studio, with a big window overlooking Queen Street. I had to lay on my stomach half the time, giving me a view of what my tattoo artist called “Parkdale TV.” As I was looking out the window, I spotted two old men holding hands and shuffling – laboriously, slowly – down the street. One man was slightly faster than the other, so he walked ahead, leading the other man. But they looked like they were both holding each other up. I don’t know if they were partners or family members or friends or what, but it was so sweet and sad that I almost burst into tears on the tattoo table. Their stiff, tired walks reminded me of my dad, and I was getting a tattoo dedicated to my dad. It was all a bit much. But lovely.
Then today – there was a lineup around the block at MuchMusic, with teenaged girls waiting for one of the actors from Harry Potter. At the end of the masses of shrieking girly girls, there were two girls sitting on the sidewalk drawing or writing quietly. They had a bag covered in rainbow and bi pride pins. My heart was warmed. It gave me hope for 15 year old girls.
