"My eyes are leaking!" my young boy once said as he lay in bed crying.
My wife and I emotionally witnessed this tragic but comical expression one day, but suddenly I found myself turning away from my wife to hide the little welling of something that was suddenly coming from my eyes.
As I attempted to stare out the window and regain my composure, I thought of the emotions involved with a young child like that, reminding me of my own childhood and its bittersweet memories . . . bittersweet memories?
This of course, begs the question:
What the @#$# is happening to me?
Of course, you expect a budding young toddler to cry and cry often, but something has been happening to me lately that has been more insidious than a Bush press release, more worrying than gas prices, and more embarrassing than noticing your fly has been open for God knows how long and to make matters worse, you're not wearing underwear.
I'm of course, talking about a grown man tearing up at the most interesting moments. Before having a kid and getting married I was a tough manly individual. But now I'm Dick Vermeil with an onion neckless. Where is this coming from? As a good history major, I know that before looking at the present, we must look at the past.
- The end of ET? No problem.
- The Shuttle Disaster I: Solid as a rock.
- Lions losing the NFC championship? No big deal!
- Being turned down for the senior prom. I'll get over it. Really, I will.
But now, any little thing starts to set me off and I have no way to stop it.
- Olympic hockey repeat of beating the Russians:
- "Do you believe in tearing up? Yes!"
- The endings of Field of Dreams, Forest Gump, Saving Private Ryan (beginning and end), Billy Elliot, Glory, any movie with a boy and a dog who dies, etc.:
- My eyes? Literally, a river runs though it.
- Certain Mark Knopfler guitar solos under certain conditions.
- H-eye humidity.
- 9/11 Homages:
- Just give me the @$#ing box of tissue now.
I don't get it. Was it 9/11, the birth of my kid, a decrease in eye muscle control brought on my old age (that's the one I'm sticking to), or just wussiness brought on by watching too many modern men like Alan Alda and Johnny Depp?
Was it Clint Eastwood sobbing during Million Dollar Baby? Was it a permanently lodged piece of fiberglass insulation in my eye? Or how about a plucked nose hair?
Yeah, that's the ticket.
There's no crying in male middle age!
Now, the next time my wife is out of town, I'm going to retrain myself. I'm going to watch Brian's Song, Fried Green Tomatoes, Rudy, Whale Rider, and any other tear jerker that I can find until I can retrain my male senses back to a normal Neanderthal, like their supposed to be. Maybe I should also go out and shoot a small animal and eat it.
But first, I see that Old Yeller is on television.
Oh, boy. I can do this.
Now where did I put the tissues?
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