Big Boys Do Cry

Just when I thought it safe to take a 5-week vacation...

Just when I thought I was clear to spend my mornings napping, my afternoons mastering the art of walking on cobblestone in high heels, and my evenings cheering Spain all the way to World Cup victory...

Just when I thought I really had "nothing to do", the call of duty has come.

No, not from the Foreign Service. As if! Other than having to give up copious amounts of blood for medical testing (and with the blood, a whole lot of tears) nothing is expected to happen in that part of my world for a long, long time. Rather, I was offered the opportunity to write – and get paid for doing so. It’s nothing fancy, just drafting content for a corporate website. But for a gal like me, who on occasion has ventured to consider herself a "writer", this is an opportunity that cannot be passed by.

To be fair, I knew this was coming, I guess I was just secretly hoping it would get postponed until après-vacances, or at the very least, après World Cup final.

But maybe this came in the nick of time. Truth be told, walking on cobblestone in high heels is painful. And after watching Paraguay’s Oscar Cardozo weep uncontrollably like a big ol’ handsome baby at his team’s loss to my team last Saturday, head buried with shame deep inside his jersey, I am starting to wonder about the whole competition thing – and thinking I am too much of a sensitive wuss to ever be a true sports fan in the style of the European Footballer. As he fell to the ground in sheer agony, every single player on that field - Spanish and Paraguayan alike - offered hugs and soccer love, trying to console an inconsolable Cardozo. It was heart wrenching to watch, so much so that I wanted to get on a plane, fly to South Africa, make all the players form one huge circle, and holding hands, sing "Kumbaya". After which of course, I would inquire as to who was single and interested in joining me for dinner.

But instead, I will write. And get paid. And take some time out on Wednesday night to throw on a pair of heels, trot across the cobblestone street to Café La Pierre, and settle in to watch Spain kick Germany’s footballing ass. Just please boys, no tears this time. I can’t handle it.