I spent much of the long holiday weekend in a sickly, weakened state on my couch, remote in hand, weeping at sappy movies. Honestly, between the two monsters — viral and hormonal — battling for evil dominion inside me, I was a sniffly, sobbing mess for a solid four days. Good flocking times.

And, of course, much of my weeping was prompted by music. It began on Wednesday night, with “Glee.” Much of the episode drove me bonkers, as it centered around the increasingly prominent and deeply irritating Quinn, but then there was a stunning musical piece: a deaf choir performing John Lennon’s “Imagine.”

Oh my goodness. I am probably (definitely) just a sucker, but something about the signing, as well as singing, of that song — already an emotional tune — just killed me. I’m getting teary again just typing about it.

On Thanksgiving morning, one of my local radio stations played “Alice’s Restaurant” around noontime, just as one of my local radio stations growing up had done. This made me grin, remembering countless Thanksgiving treks to my aunt and uncle’s house, with my younger siblings hollering at my parents to change the station so they didn’t have to listen to old Arlo ramble on any longer. And then this made me sad, missing my family on Thanksgiving day.

Then, over the course of the weekend, I watched quite a few holiday movies, in whole or in part, and many of them broke me right down again. I mean, I cried at Elf. Elf! Should one really cry at Will Ferrell movies? (Oh wait, I totally cried at Stranger than Fiction too.) But when Zooey Deschanel starts singing? And the crowd sings with her? And they all are filled with Christmas spirit? Oh my goodness. Waterworks.

Also I saw The Family Stone, which I have to say: possibly one of my favorite movies. I mean, come on: Dermot Mulroney! Diane Keaton! Luke Wilson! Claire Danes! Sarah Jessica Parker! Paul Schneider! Rachel McAdams! Craig T. Nelson! What is not to like? Also it has the lovely Elizabeth Reaser, who at one point watches one of my absolute favorite movies, Meet Me in St. Louis, and weeps when Judy Garland sings “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” And who wouldn’t? Oh so sad. So there I am, weeping at a movie within a movie, getting all caught up in the Christmas spirit — or at least its maudlin stepsister — before Thanksgiving was even fully over.

Today I am, alas, back at work, and operating at about 80% of normal health. I heard nothing worth commenting on during my commute this morning — but my head is full of the weekend’s tear-inducing tunes.

Could be worse.

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