He said: Men only shed tears during very poignant moments
A playfully critical friend once told me I look like Sid from the animated movie series “Ice Age.” For those who are unfamiliar with the character, he’s a sloth with what could be a wicked thyroid issue. Like him, my eyes appear to be escaping my skull.
But my massive blues rarely charm with their sparkle. I’ve come to accept that my eyes will almost always be bloodshot. It’s like vines crawling from my corneas, and their deep roots refuse to die. The reason behind the irritation is unclear, however.
It’s not because I’m an insomniac, always refusing the weight of my exhausted lids. Nor am I perpetually under the influence (of what, you decide).
And maybe most certainly it isn’t the result of routine emotional breakdowns. Crying is in fact nearly foreign to me.
It’s that way for all dudes, actually. We are rigid statues that the most wrenching turmoil cannot penetrate. Our mental brawn scoffs as women wipe their cheeks after “Grey’s Anatomy” each week, smearing their sleeves with dissolved mascara. In fact, our shirts can’t even absorb such runoff because we wear items like flannel, which is essentially steel armor.
This, of course, is crap.
We aren’t senseless Neanderthals; our ducts are capable of leaking, and they do. But I also suspect women shed tears much more frequently and openly than men. We just happen to be skilled pilots, flying our waterworks under the radar. That or we choose to suffer from selective amnesia, which is likely why I have such trouble recalling epic sobs. We aren’t big on keeping tabs on swollen, snot-soaked moments.
Still, I can immediately pinpoint a pair of crying catalysts, although they are spaced far apart.
The first catalog of weepings is from before the millennium turned. What seemed to open the floodgates were the cinematic masterpieces of the ’90s, which included “Free Willy” and “Air Bud.” Yes, I have an affinity for animals, and I bet those endangered mammals choked you up, too. (First stop after the theater: local pound.)
But films with human protagonists hit my weak spot, too. As a bit of “research,” I acquired “Simon Birch,” a movie that crushed me around the age of 12. It’s a story of a boy born with an extremely small stature who feels he’s destined for heroics, yet he continues to face tragedy. I locked myself in my darkened room and waited to experience the same waterfall as I had years prior.
Nothing.
It was sad, for sure, but a decade clearly made a difference. I mean, I have facial hair now, which obviously adds exponential toughness.
Since the big screen rarely encourages my vulnerability as an adult, it’s been family that has managed to shake me up.
After sophomore year I landed a summer internship in Denver where I lived with my older brother. Our connection was once fleeting, but those few months renewed and strengthened our friendship, and my August departure was brutal.
Only moments after his waving hand left my rearview mirror, that paralyzing chill swept over my body. Then a buffalo began tap-dancing on my chest, and I struggled for breath like a beached whale (Willy’s still with me). By the time I entered Interstate 70, I was absolutely blubbering and pursing my lips from the salt. Considering the road’s steep speed limit, it was all sorts of unsafe.
Thankfully I made it home, and I don’t think I’ve bawled since. Seriously. And it’s not like there haven’t been instances that were supposedly prime for it. I’ve been to weddings and funerals where drops might be expected to flow, but those simply aren’t the contexts in which I lose it, and I imagine a lot of guys relate. Crying is a very personal release, and it’s not mandated by any sort of social expectation. We can endure sorrow (or joy) while appearing like robots.
So we aren’t necessarily inhuman, but we are rather particular. My eyes stay dry standing before a gravestone, but they well up in light of distant siblings and basketball-playing dogs.
Wait. My parents have a dog. Two of my apartment neighbors have them as well. Maybe my demon eyes do have a clear future. Either I start taking Claritin or we abandon the pups.
But then, I’d start crying again.
She said: Crying keeps you from going crazy
Caught in conversation with a friend regarding his roommate’s dating situation, he very candidly put forth his opinion. “Well, I think his girlfriend’s crazy,” my friend said. “I mean, she just suddenly became a crier. She cries over everything now.”
When a girl cries, it means she's crazy? I might consider that statement as a fact if I wanted to talk about that “token crying girl” you always see downtown, so drunk and ridiculous that you wonder if she's secretly on some reality show. But really, most tears don't happen like that.
What some people don’t understand is that sometimes, there's a definite need to cry. Crying doesn’t completely hinge on mental illness.
There are plenty of good reasons to weep and wail — and not be considered crazy.
My most intense bout of unhappy crying happened after getting home from vacation, only to find every single fish in my marine tank — and my prized pet shrimp, Dr. Brain — stone-cold dead. That’s a pretty good reason to get out the Kleenex. (Not to mention I lost hundreds of dollars because of the Great Tank Disaster of 2009.)
When a pet dies, it’s a given that you’ll cry — even if you have tear ducts made of steel. Whether it’s your childhood cat Fluffy, your smelly dog Fido or a dumb crustacean, you can’t simply dismiss the loss of your pet and hold back the sobs. How can you not be lachrymose when losing unconditional love?
Now, on the other hand, breaking up with someone is losing not-so-unconditional love, but it is still another legitimate excuse to cry. Your feelings — and your pride — are suffering during that awkward “let's talk” conversation, and of course you're going to feel pretty rotten. And after the ordeal is over, you can crawl into your container of Chunky Monkey and mourn fully. It's OK. Everyone has been to that ugly post-dumping place and has probably done the exact same thing. You can't be labeled crazy for crying in that situation.
But during the break up, the worst circumstance to happen occurs very rarely: the guy starts crying. Yes, it's an emotional time for him, too, but women aren't used to seeing their man-things break down emotionally. A man tearing up will easily send even non-weepy women into a fit of blubbering.
For me, a crying man has often gotten me to stay in a relationship completely out of pity. Ladies — don't be fooled. His sensitive side isn't sensitive enough for him to stop flirting with his ex on Facebook.
And even if your pets are still kicking and your relationship (or lack thereof) is going great, sometimes stress alone is enough to send you into hysterics. Most professors have the uncanny ability to make all their major projects due in the same three-day span of time — and though you know you're brilliant, you're just swamped. Add on top of that your extracurricular activities, cruddy job, career search and grad school applications, who wouldn't find themselves crying out of sheer frustration?
So why cry at all? Yeah, sure, something is sad or aggravating, but is it really worth it to mess up your mascara?
The answer, of course, is a heartfelt, resounding “yes.”
Punch a teddy bear and scream into your pillow. Rip up all his old photographs and “lose” his CDs you've borrowed. Curse the day you decided to take that class, and write a string of obscenities at the bottom of a paper you've been working on for hours. Or just sit in the dark and take a moment for yourself.
And do all these things while crying. Let me tell you, it's the best stress relief out there. Why? Because your life can't get any worse than that moment where you're sobbing uncontrollably like a preteen girl.
So screw the phrase, “big girls don't cry.” That's the worst piece of advice ever hashed out by the radio. In fact, it's a good thing to get your waterworks flowing, because crying doesn't make you crazy — but it can definitely keep you from going there.