If you knew me, you’d know this: I’m a whiner. A terrible one. I could weep over a TV ad. A movie trailer. Text me the right words and I’ll turn all snot and tears. It’s also pretty embarrassing if you’re with me. Because while I snuffle and wipe my nose on my sleeve, you’d be checking around for strangers’ side glances. Everyone wondering what you’ve done to reduce me to a face of wrinkles and jerking sobs. It’s mortifying.
I’ve always thought my whining was somewhat genetic. Blaming your family and genes for what you dislike about yourself is always the right answer. But no one really cries much in my family.
My grandad didn’t cry when he lost a whole fingernail. He was fighting in the trenches and a bullet blew his distal phalange away. They didn’t shoot him in the chest, not in his leg. Just the top of his index finger.
He went back home as a war hero and my family told him that now he could save money on his manicure. And Grandad, he just kept smoking his cigarettes on the doorstep all day. Waiting to get hungry and terrifying the future generations of footballers. Those loud kids kicking a ball and screaming next door, Grandad’d walk out with a kitchen knife and cut the football in two. Avocado-style. Those kids, now they’re probably all lawyers and doctors with broken dreams.