Last week I marched into work grimly and declared to the men there:
"I'm warning you that I took all my bitchy pills this morning, and I'm a little miss crabby ass. To protect you all, I plan to put my headphones and not unleash any of (motioning over myself) THIS on any of you poor souls."
Sam, known more for his deadpan sarcasm than his empathy, promptly stood up and said, "You do what you need to do, and it's going to be okay," and then hugged me warmly.
Naturally, I burst into tears.
Ryan walked out of his office with his phone in hand and pointed to it, saying, "Based on my calculations, we shouldn't be in this phase of the pregnancy until June 21."
I wiped my nose on my sleeve and fired off a double-barreled bird to my boss, my friend, the man who is like the brother I never wanted.