I'm not a big cryer. And by that I mean I don't cry at Eastenders.
Unless it's particularly sad.
Last night, however, I was put through the emotional wringer at the behest of "My Sister's Keeper". For the blissfully unaware, this is the story of a girl seeking medical emancipation from her parents for the rights to her body, even though her leukemic sister and 'genetic twin' may die as a result of it.
In keeping with the theme of the evening, I tripped along to the cinema with my sister. She has previously cried at the trailers for this film, so I knew enough to bring the tissues. I knew even more when I entered the theatre to find a room populated only by women, with large amounts of ice cream on standby.
It was not looking good.
Don't get me wrong, I wasn't entirely naive. I'd read the book. I knew it would not end well. But who could possibly expect the gut wrenching kill-me-now-and-make-it-stop sadness of it all?
I cried for 90 minutes.
Each time I thought I might be have stopped leaking enough to see without blurring, those wily directors sensed it and threw in another gratuitous shot of a bald headed child hanging on to a hospital bed and bravely comforting an adult.
By the time the credits rolled, you would think my nearest and dearest had passed away.
To make matters worse, the Cineworld staff actually congregated outside the doors when it was over just to laugh and point at the tear stained fools leaving. Or maybe it was the unrestrained sobs of 300 women that drew them to check on the safety of their patrons.
I am not a pretty crier. No single Johnny Depp-esque tears for me.
No gracious black and white Hollywood starlet tears that run but don't take your make up with it.
Not even a Dawson of Dawson Creek sob with one eye on passers by.
We're talking blotches like third degree burns, Shroud of Turin makeup and a very unbecoming redness added to the whites of my eyes.
My delicately skinned sister brushed away a tear or two and was fine.
I wandered home like a madwoman.
24 hours later, I STILL look like a madwoman. With conjunctivitis.
Word to the wise, sometimes you should know your limits and get a DVD.
The massively entertaining 'Pyjama Girls' is coming back to the Irish Film Institute this week; I had meant to blog about this the last time around, but well, I'm just a bit rubbish. The title speaks for itself, but in case you have been under a rock - or in a more civilised town or city - this is the modern day equivalent of Wee Willie Winkie, but with girls who will "buuurst ya".
