» Skip therapy. See The Duchess.

It’s often hard in our years of ever-increasing maturity to make time for a full-on emotional purge. We’ve spent three plus years training ourselves not to cry at work and drunk tears ended when we started blacking out before we realized we were upset. Plus if you’ve been reading this blog you’ve elminated all negative relationships and established a healthy distance from your mother.

And so we find ourselves with thicker skin and less tendency toward hysterics.

Sometimes, though, it takes a massive sob induced by an emotional break through to really clear out the mental ducts and get in touch with some deep inner shit. Apparently this is a girl thing which is fine but perhaps if the male population spent a tad more time crying it out one to three more massive banks would still exist.

So without alcohol, douche bags, and new Sarah McLachlin albums we’re left without much option for letting it all out. Until this Friday, that is.

I was fortunate to sit in on a pre-screening of The Duchess – Keira Knightly’s highly anticipated biopic about the tragic life of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire.

I am still crying. Seriously. 15 minutes ago the trailer came on while I was watching 90210 and I lost my shit. This – ladies and gay gentlemen – was exactly what we needed.

I don’t want to give the entire plot away, so by way of synopsis I’ll just say that all Georgiana Spencer (Knightly) loves in the world is torn from her delicate and impeccably-dressed limbs by her entire alphabet’s worth of dealbreakers of husband, The Duke (A: adulterer, B: bald, C: cannot communicate, D: dick…). Let me tell you, Ralph Fiennes will never do business in Hollywood again after playing this role because no woman will hire him. He is vile.

G finally finds love with a man who is both fantastic in bed and supports her politics (very difficult to find) only to SPOILER ALERT lose him and the child they bore to the unjust rules of the all-powerful monarchy.

Add deeply moving music to this god damn nightmare and it tops two bottles of Red Wine and an episode of Extreme Makeover Home Edition where Ty is replaced by Michael J. Fox — off the meds.

I worked through more buried shit in those 110 minutes than I have through a decade of journaling and four Ignatian discernment retreats. And, dramatic as I can be, I’m not a your traditional theater crier. I haven’t really lost it since Hotel Rawanda, and even then it was because I love Don Cheedle so much that it killed me to see him crying.

I was sitting next to a 30-ish dude with an uncanny resemblance to Seth Rogan (love) who was crying so hard he had to ask me for a tissue. Once the lights came up he turned to me, blood shot and snot covered, and said, “I should never have let Emily go.”

Opportunities like these don’t come along often. For the low cost of 10-12 dollars (prices vary by proximity to Manhattan) you can accomplish the kind of personal growth generally limited to expensive therapy and/or a really big fight with someone. See it and weep.