I am not going to see La La Land. I got a text from a friend which said, “Tell me you loved LaLa? I cried for three days.” The thing is, I do not want to cry for three days; I do not want to invite three days of tears into my life. I do not have that much emotional credit in the bank. Although everything is OK, I am not swimming in a vulgarity of love and security. The tiny crossroads – rage, joy, sadness, laughter, fear – of each minute of each day are quite enough.
Call the Midwife? Well, that’s basically an act of self-harm. I have a friend whose husband banned that programme because she just crumpled on the sofa howling like some kind of convulsing soggy rag.
Sometimes we think that crying makes us more connected, more alive, more present. Maybe that is true sometimes. Other times it makes us raw, exhausted, puffy and bewildered. Catharsis is about the purging of emotions but I do not believe that a John Lewis Christmas advert or One Born Every Minute ticks that box. That stuff is the KFC of feelings. Fast-foody and disposable and you don’t feel so hot afterwards.
So, no, I won’t be watching La La Land. Not soon. Or Beaches ever again. Probably. A while ago I began the mission to wipe masochism from my life. So, if I want to cry, maybe I’ll chop an onion or stick a fork in my thigh or watch the news. These things change. Emotional sands shift. But that will do for now.