There’s that old saying, you know the one, something about
wearing your heart on your sleeve.
I guess, you know, it’s supposed to describe a certain type
of sad sack sentimentalist who advertises their most cringe-worthy feelings for
all to see. Those feelings we’ve all been taught it’s common decency to stuff
away and hide forever until we die alone taking our regrets and our unspoken
declarations of love with us to the grave where they will decay along with our
tangible bits. Those feelings.
But some of us are even more pathetic than sleeve-heart
wearers. Some of us wear our hearts all over our faces, like we’re babies just
learning to feed ourselves. We wear our desires and tragedies all over our faces
like mashed peas and pureed sweet potato and prune whip. This heart all over
the face type is gauche and far more uncivilized and our dirty faces are so
much more obvious to the beholder than heart shaped badges ironed or sewn on to
a sleeve like a Girl Scout. I mean, that’s sort of cute, isn’t it? But the
food? All over the face? If you saw someone with a little heart on their sleeve
you might go, aww…but if you saw a grown adult woman with food all over her
face, you’d run in the opposite direction. You would. Especially if she was
looking directly at you.
The heart on the sleeve crowd, it could be said, is guilty
of nothing more than an endearing emotional fashion faux pas while the heart
shmeared on the face folks are committing what is essentially gross emotional
hygiene.
This is what I’m trying to say: I’ve rubbed my face in a
plate of pre-masticated and gelatinous feelings. My emotions are in my eyes, in
my hair, congealed behind my ears. I know I should just go wash my face, but
honestly, I don’t want to.
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