Bring on the box of tissues

Paging through my school magazine (again) this morning, during breakfast, I felt a lump that had little to do with the wholewheat pita I was eating, writes St Francis Bay freelance journalist Beth Cooper-Howell in her column Woman on Top

Paging through my school magazine (again) this morning, during breakfast, I felt a lump that had little to do with the wholewheat pita I was eating.

The tendency to tear up is something I share with my friends Sally and Zoe. It isn’t a generational thing – the latter is 12 and the former in her fighting forties – but it’s probably a girl issue, until proved otherwise.

In the past, I’ve written about my role as the perfect demographic for sentimental marketing, since I cry during soppy advertisements, such as the one, four years ago, about the doe-eyed pensioner learning to read. As he hesitantly spelled out “cat” followed by “mat” and then read a whole book by himself, I cried.

And I wasn’t alone. I felt part of a shared emotional outpouring – something South Africans do very well. Do you remember the 1995 Rugby World Cup?

While spiritual evolution is the ability to maintain balance and composure, among other things, my ability to be moved to tears is what it is. I don’t weep loudly or for attention, but I’m an easy ride on the emotional rollercoaster. Sob stories are my undoing; and many unsavoury characters, past and present, have emptied my wallet and wasted my time because of it.