Le Divan de La Tristesse

My high school French teacher had a special couch in the sunny back corner of her classroom where you were allowed to lie down if you were having a bad day.

It was burnt orange and upholstered in a nubby synthetic fabric. There was a big, leafy indoor tree next to it, and a magazine bin full of French glossies which were rumored to contain ads with half naked women in them.

All you had to do was start crying in the middle of class, run a temperature, or complain of cramps, and you'd earn yourself a free ticket to the orange couch with its forty-five minute reprieve from having to answer any questions - en francais! - about the weather, your hobbies, or where the train station was located.

Oh, ma petite Rima! Vous-vous sentez mal aujourd'hui? Ma pauvre petite! Allez! Asseyez-vous sur le divan de la tristesse!

The old divan de la tristesse was never at a loss for occupants. In high school, someone was always having their period or breaking down in the middle of class.

Back in the heyday, I'd say I cried at least three, maybe four days out of any given week? I could cry at the drop of a hat, and I was an equal opportunity crier, too: blubbering it up in a bathroom stall during lunch break, sniffling quietly in front of my opened locker, or flat out weeping evenings at home in the privacy of my bedroom, face down into my lemon yellow chiffon bedspread while listening to the Cure.

There were so many things to be melancholy about: unrequited love, a failed Trigonometry test, the senseless slaughter of baby seals. Emotions were my bitch, always at the ready and bubbling effortlessly to the surface at every angsty turn.

I hardly ever cry anymore. It's probably for the best. It gives me a migraine, for one thing, and my eyeballs get bone dry.

What's more, a good cry hardly ever seems warranted, or even justifiable these days. Where once I might have had a full blown snotfest over a misunderstanding with a friend or family member, I'm now much more likely to be angry and irritated instead. Which sort of makes me wonder whether I've reached a new level of emotional maturity, or if I'm just dead inside.

I could have used a time out on the nubby orange couch and a copy of French Vogue today. I'm OK, really. But I miss Madame Rothe, sick days, and my old capacity for tears.