Andy, Gay and I were on the veranda recently, talking, as we do, on the familiar topic of the differences between men and women when the issue of tears came up.
Gay’s sister had phoned from California bawling her eyes out, an immediate cause for concern right up until the time Gay realized she was crying for joy at a bit of good news; an emotional response to which Gay and I well relate, but put Andy at a bit of a loss. Having no recollection of ever shedding tears at happy moments, a revelation that had us pondering the possibility that going all weepy when all goes really right just might be a girl thing, he found the whole reaction familiar as an observer, but still odd.
Remembering moments from my daughter’s wedding, a joyful occasion, I know I was leaking like a garden hose, while her dad … having supplied me with a brand new hanky, correctly predicting precipitation … smiled broadly through the ceremony, managing to walk back down the isle sans the red nose I snuffled on my way out.
I cried more than my babies when first presented with each one, dripped my way through their graduations, dissolved when greeting people at the airport, blubbered when given wonderful gifts and dehydrated myself on many of the happier occasions life has kindly offered up. Even a story of someone else’s happiness can get me going glassy-eyed.
The thing is, I love those tears that spring from joy, and found myself feeling more than a little sorry for guys if, indeed, they miss out on this version of waterworks.
Coincidentally, a couple of things have crossed my radar this morning that give some hope … or not … that guys do go all squishy from time to time without having lost a World Cup match.
Although it seems to be sad stuff that jerks the tears when it comes to movies, at least some guys do drop immunity when sufficiently manipulated:
~Bob~
I’m a 48-year-old man, ex-rugby player and motorcycle racer and I admit that Babe did it for me. Right at the end when the farmer says “That’ll do Pig”, I start welling up at the thought of it.
There's always the butch smart ass, of course:
~David, Glasgow~
The bit in The Italian Job where the Mafia smash Michael Caine’s Aston Martin and the two E-Types had me crying like a baby.
For real proof of joy, however, a video making the rounds lets us listen in while one mountain man … well, a man in mountains, anyway … overflows.
I have some suspicion that there may have been an illegal substance or two involved in his reaction, and, given the duration of his outburst, a bit of slammin’ the salmon going on … but maybe that’s just me being hardhearted.
A collection of my short stories:
I'm in this one, too ...
And I'm in here, as well ...
Paradise Preoccupied 
you not think his would have benefited from more shots of his blubbing face? he should have panned round, at least
He seemed to be lacking editorial capabilities …
Heck. I cry all the time.
😥
Good. Women love cry babies!
I can’t quit humming “Somewhere Over The Rainbow….”
I like men who cry. It shows how deeply they feel.
Especially when they cry over things that have nothing to do with a scratch on a car or a lost game of soccer …
The last time I cried was when I found a whole flat/box of porcini mushrooms at the street vendor. He never has porcinis! I pushed an old nun away from the porcinis and she fell into the melons, her rosary beads caught in the asparagus. I grabbed the flat right away, threw money at the vendor, and then balanced them on my bicycle. Then I grabbed some gorgonzola cheese from another vendor, screaming that I’d be back to pay him later. After admiring their beauty, their perfect skin, how they looked spread out on the plate, I drizzled the cheese sauce over the cooked porcinis. They were soooo beautiful and seductive – calling to me – inviting me… I had to have them. With all of my strength I conquered them.
When they were all gone I cried. I sobbed. I screamed at the empty plate and then threw it off the balcony onto a 1963 Buick that was passing by. I sped on my bicycle back to the vendor and he had none left I wailed in pain that only the unfulfilled can understand. I am still searching for more, I need them, I have to have more. I will never cry again until I find another flat of porcinis, my life is gray and miserable…
That is what happened when I was fourteen years old… I curse the day I had my beloveds, my oh so lovely (in a non-British sense of the word) porcinis… My life was over. My life is searching for porcinis… I am spent. Finished.
sims, you mekka me laff …
“sims, you mekka me laff …”
As a famous but very primitive Amerikanski once said, “mission accomplished”.
Laffing is goot. Small cry is ok. Big cry with wailing no goot but sometimes needed.
And so it goes…
I like to express my feelings through writing stories (quotes and poems) and through my art work, and music. But mostly I love collecting meaningful quotes that can sink down into my sole resulting in a laugh or two or getting a tearful in both eyes. So I collected some of Joyce Cary’s quotes a while back and thought of this particular one after I read your blog. This particular one I think says it all or maybe not.
“The tears of the world are a constant quality. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.”
Quote by Joyce Cary
If we can cry then we can laugh, just hope we can laugh more often.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/betsyakhanks/blog#ixzz0yi5UaPBW
Nice, Betsy … thanks …