A Good Cry. Or Two.

On Sunday night, at approximately 11:31 p.m., I welled up.

Or, more accurately, cried like a baby.

LOST - our favorite T.V. show in the entire world - was over. After six great seasons, the show wrapped up in a moment filled with love and community.

And I cried and cried.

For the show. For the characters. For the fans everywhere who now have no idea what to do with their Tuesday nights.

I bawled like a baby.

I cried so much that, the next morning, I had puffy-cry eyes. You know the kind. The kind that make you look like you've spent your weekend on some kind of bender.

Because, sans a drop of alcohol, that's what happens when I stay up way past my bed time to watch way more T.V. in one sitting than I have all year.

As good as the show was, it was a bad decision.

Because Monday morning, less than nine hours later, my first class of the day started to trickle in - my seniors - and within seconds of being in my classroom, they started talking about how they only have 1.5 weeks left of school and then they're done.

They're leaving.

They're graduating and very likely never going to see me or each other again.

That, my friends, was all it took.

One little frown from one of my favorite students, and there went the waterworks.

Another student was actually handing me tissues, all while I openly sobbed, "My babies are growing up! And leaving! Where did the time go?"

Just like that, I broke Cardinal Teacher Rule No. 1: Never let them see you cry.

It was embarrassing.

Because, my friends, they all saw me cry, in a big way. All because they are graduating high school.

Not wanting to be left out, my eyes had graduated, as well.

They'd gone from puffy-cry eyes to swollen-shut eyes in about two seconds flat.

That poor kid couldn't hand me enough tissues to deal with that. I now looked like one of those women emblazoned on a domestic abuse poster. Eyes swollen shut. Down-turned mouth. Silently weeping in my pain.

It was oh-so-lovely.

Luckily, it was also humiliating enough for me to suck it up and make it through my entire day without crying again.

But then I arrived at the gym for my last Monday-night Body Pump class.

I taught the class and then told them that I was moving in 2.5 weeks and wouldn't be returning to this Monday night time slot again. I explained how much I'd miss them all and managed, even, to keep my face dry.

But, then, the whole darn room of them applauded me. My boss even led them in a rousing round of "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow." (The nerve.)

And, well, you guessed it: I cried.

And cried. And cried. And cried.

I was hiccuping and snorting and sobbing and wiping sweat and snot from my face like it was nobody's business.

I was the epitome of classy, I tell you. The epitome. And that was all before the hugs started.

Take about waterworks.

I managed to pull it together only enough to get to my car before breaking down again. I drove and sobbed and drove and sobbed.

But I didn't even stop when I got home.

Because I was greeted at the back door by my two very friendly dogs, Marvin and Fish. They were gallivanting and wiggling and, all in all, just happy to see me. They settled down only enough to plop at my feet and lay their heads atop each other, paws intertwined.

Man's best friend, who are also the best of doggy buds.

At least for another 2.5 weeks.

Because when we move to South Carolina, Marvin is coming.

And Fish-y is staying behind.

Technically, Fish was only our foster dog for the year, so we always knew this was day would come. I've been steeling my heart for it for months. Poor Fish-y had to go back to his rightful owners, and we'd become a one-dog family once again.

Unfortunately, though, nobody's told Marvin yet.

And those two doggie-boys are going to be heartbroken.

You can't bring Marvin in the house without Fish whining alone in the backyard. If Fish sits with me at the front of the house, Marvin goes crazy if he's not right there next to him. They freak out when they're separated for even the most dreaded of situations, like their routine bath. They sleep on top of each other, eat together, patrol for squirrels, and bark at intruders, passersby and stealthy breezes together.

These two are inseparable.

For now.

And thinking about all of that, thinking about how their poor little doggy hearts are about to be broken soon after I tear them apart - well, you can guess what happened.

The tears?

They were aflowin'.

I sat there, on the stoop. Crying. Over dogs.

Or, rather, over dog relationships.

Woe is me, all right. Woe is me.

I didn't know a person's body could hold that many tears. But mine did. And, even as I type this, I can feel more coming.

Because, it turns out, I don't leave well.

I don't exit gracefully.

I can't handle good-byes.

And I still have 2.5 weeks of them left.

Sniff, sniff.

Somebody pass me the tissues.

***

Happy Tuesday!