“Oh no, they can’t be teardrops
For a man ain’t supposed to cry.”
– Dee Clark
And that’s the way I was brought up. Guys don’t cry. Period. When we had that Indian attack just as we got out of our Conestoga wagon to settle down for the night on the Great Plains, and I got an arrow in my shoulder? No crying. Gritted my teeth as taught and barely flinched when my dad pushed the arrow on through, snipped off the arrowhead, and pulled the shaft back out. I thought about sniffling a little when he poured in the mercurochrome, after all, I was only 8, but I fought it off. No crying! And proud of it.
So, a few weeks ago, at the soft urging of those who matter in the media, I decided to get in touch with my metrosexual self, my inner feminine side. I allowed myself to cry, urged on by our society’s new and enlightened expectation of guys. I saw a butterfly and pointed and burst into tears. So beautiful. I watched the Hawkeyes destroy Davidson in The Big Dance. Sobs. I saw a newborn baby at church – uncontrollable weeping.
But that was the problem. “Uncontrollable.”
Someone has to control themselves at all times or society will fall apart. Have you noticed how screwed up our country is these days? It’s because men have become goober-faced wimps, swayed left and right from being urged to show emotions (soccer is another key turning point in American weakness – I mean, men and boys running around and kicking each other in the shins? But I digress.). I have now renounced all crying. Emotions are unreliable and I’m thrilled that I don’t have any. They can get you into trouble. They lie. They deceive. They kid around with your innards.
So don’t hang around and expect to see me get all squishy when something terrible or wonderful or routine happens. Ain’t supposed to cry, Dee Clark sang. Damn straight. Gotta be some control somewhere.