Driving in city traffic while crying may cause one to attact undue attention, particularly at stoplights.

I got in the van this morning to go to my belly dancing session with Cedar and the song started literally as I started the engine. Since it's a safe bet that no one out there reading this is as big a Zep fan as I am, you probably don't know that Robert Plant wrote this song after his young son died from a stomach virus in 1977. As soon as the lyrics started, so did the tears, but the verse that particularly got me was the one I quoted.

I can't imagine how I looked to the people staring at me at the stop light. When I looked over, I managed a weak smile to assure them that I wasn't going to do anything drastic, like suddenly turn my wheel, gun the engine and ram into them. Most of the time I just looked straight ahead and let the tears fall.

Grieving in public is really hard for me. I feel embarrassed, like I'm somehow weak or pitiful if I let people see me cry. I know in my head that I have every reason to cry when I need to cry, but it doesn't stop that non-logical part of me from cringing when I do it. It's the same part that dictates whether or not it's okay to pick your nose in public, you know?

I looked, I imagine, like some kind of emotional wreck to the people at that stoplight. I couldn't explain, you know, roll down the window and say, "Hey, I have a right to be blubbering, my kid died a few months ago," because, well because when I looked back at them, they hurriedly looked the other way. And besides, it's hard to tell strangers that I've lost a child. It really bums them out and then I feel bad about that too.

Anyway, after that happened, Cedar and I had a great time bellydancing. She told me I was a natural, but maybe she's just being nice. I really enjoyed it -- that much I know. It fits right in with all the other stuff I'm doing lately. Hurrah for my body, which needs so much work. It is a great distraction right now.

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