Lost: One Grip

When I was a kid (in what now feels like the Bronze Age), my cousin Jerry (hi, Jerry!) and I had this routine. From the relative safety of 10 or 15 feet away, I would do something—like stick my tongue out—to provoke him. (I was five or six years younger than he was, so cut me some slack. Sticking my tongue out probably seemed really, really brazen at the time.)

Jerry would feign anger, then march over to the couch from which I had taunted him. He would pin me down and tickle me mercilessly, until I laughed so hard that I was gasping for air and pleading for mercy.

Then he would stop abruptly, get up, and walk to the other side of the room, as if he had been struck by such abject boredom that his only recourse was to distance himself immediately, before rigor mortis set in.

Then, of course, I'd taunt him all over again.

He'd march back over and tickle me senseless, I'd beg for him to stop, and then he'd abandon me for the other side of the room, warning me not to step foot off the couch or there'd be consequences. I'd wait until he gave me a sidelong glance, checking to make sure that I was staying put, and then inch one foot onto the floor.

I knew this would only bring another round of relentless tickling, but I didn't care. I loved it. It got to the point where Jerry didn't even have to head back toward me—he'd give me his sternest glare, I'd dangle my foot off the couch, he'd feint toward me, and I'd burst into laughter. Uncontrollable laughter. Tears-down-my-face-and-stitches-in-my-side laughter.

I've been thinking about Jerry and those ticklefests a lot recently, remembering how it felt to be so primed for laughter that the slightest change in the air pressure could send me straight over the edge to giddiness.

I've had that same sensation quite often these past few weeks, except that instead of being perpetually on the verge of laughter, I've been dwelling just below the surface of tears. All day. Every day. And let me tell you, that's not a place you really want to spend a lot of time.

My composure has forsaken me so frequently that I am considering a second career as a sprinkler system.

Last week I cried about using the wrong attachment on our new hand mixer. Yesterday I cried about scheduling an appointment for some maintenance work. This morning I cried on the phone with my master's project adviser. This evening I cried while watching "Boys on the Side" on TV.

I have been crying a lot.

I know it's understandable, and probably overdue, but come ON. Enough already.

Somebody better tickle me.

Quick.