There is an old movie theater in our little town called The Ritz, it’s one of those places with red carpet on the walls and black and white photos of people in top hats attending the theater. It smells like farts and sadness. They also have this amazing circa 1950’s room at the back of the main theater called The Crying Room. It welcomes you with a creepy little picture of a deformed baby with giant tattoo tears. Everyone knows what that room is for…any crying infant ruining your movie experience and me. The crying room offers something extraordinary…you can get away from the 200 people chomping popcorn too loudly, sneak into your own private room, and watch the second run movie while the baby (or grown woman) you brought to the theater is having a massive meltdown. The kind of meltdown that must be calmed with a nipple or a giant pickle from the gallon container that looks like it has been sitting on that snack counter for 27 years. (Matters not…I will eat that pickle.) This is my petition to bring back the crying room to all public institutions and possibly every home built after July 2016. I just need a crying room…in all the places.
Work would be my first go to for establishing the crying room, because…people. Nothing fancy here, I just need a box of aloe tissues, some cold water, a comfortable couch, and sound proof walls. And maybe a fully stocked bar. Two weeks ago I had a customer who finally sent me over the edge. Keep in mind…I’ve worked in customer service for many years and have encountered my fair share of angry women in tube tops who are the most important person on the planet, but this particular cunt sandwich blindsided me during a time in my life when I am barely capable of pulling up my own pants. No details, but things have been tough. Like trying to chew through metal with no teeth and bleeding gums kinda tough. Regardless, I’m an adult who has a job and I’m required to be responsible. So I head to work one lovely Friday afternoon, clock in, and put on that grown up happy face that people come to expect from you after the age of 18. Within minutes, we are swamped with customers and I’m juggling orders, smiling at everyone, and praying for the place to burn to the fucking ground. Then SHE shows up.
“What could be so hard about my drink? I ordered a drip coffee and it’s been forever.”
It had been three minutes. Which is kind of like forever when you are a festering twat whistle with the face only a mother could love. And probably not even a mother.
“I’m so sorry. We just made a fresh batch of coffee and it will be right out.”
I clenched my teeth as I felt my throat close up. it’s not that she called me a tragic whore who should have gotten a college degree and made something of myself, she just caught me at a time in my life where I needed extra softy kid gloves instead of a nasty wire hanger kind of attitude.
“I don’t know what your fucking problem is.”
And that’s when I needed my own personal, poorly lit, fully stocked crying room. I knew what my fucking problem was and it had nothing to do with her or her coffee or the fact that she insisted on wearing a low cut tank top with no bra. We just met at the wrong time, on the wrong day, and I lost my shit. In a men’s bathroom that smelled like urine where I was forced to wipe my nose with single ply tissue. WHY ARE WE STILL MAKING THAT SHIT????
The cry room could really come in handy at home as well. I don’t mind crying in my bed at 2 AM while I hide under my quilt, but it would be nice to have a specified room with a little painted sign that says “Crying Room: Do Not Disturb” I’m quite alright once I have a good solid cry, the kind that makes most people uncomfortable when they see it in a movie. It’s like therapy except I’m not paying 175 dollars an hour and I don’t have to watch a stranger take notes about me while my life falls apart. If I had my own crying room, complete with a tub and some bath salts, I could sob in private while taking a two hour (or two week) hot bath and sipping on a cocktail. Instead, I usually wake up my husband and force him to ask me awkward questions like “Is everything okay?” or “Are you going to be doing that for long?”.
It would helpful to have a crying room installed in all stores and restaurants I frequent just in case the person in charge of the shitty elevator music accidentally plays a song that makes me remember something sad which in turn makes my throat seize up like I’m having an allergic reaction to being alive (which I currently am) and I desperately need a place to just fall the fuck apart. While picking up some eggs and tortillas. (I’m probably craving breakfast burritos right now.) Perhaps when the waiter asks me what I would like to drink and I’m feeling unstable in that moment, instead of having to bite my cheek to the point of drawing blood, I could just sprint to the crying room for a respite from humanity. Maybe they serve my pasta in there, I don’t know…I’m just throwing out really good ideas right now.
Bring back the crying room and make it accessible to everyone, not just infants covered in feces who need to suckle a titty.