As I get older, more things seem to fall out of me, including tears. I still tell people that I cry about every few years, although the past few years have made me rethink the accuracy this statement. Honestly, if I include "tearing up" in the "crying" category, then I'd probably have to say that I cry about twice a day.
Yeah, I've become quite misty in my fifties.
If I were to identify a turning point in my crying life, it would probably be the Justin Bieber concert I attended with Allison back in the summer of 2011. As the designated driver, I can say that safety, not pop music, was the main reason I was attending this Omaha concert.
By the time I arrived and had acclimated to the stench of Axe and Viva la Juicy in the air (much different than the stench I recall at the Styx concert in 1977), I started to think about the music I was about to hear. I knew absolutely nothing about Justin Bieber, but, within 20 minutes of him taking stage, I was tearing up like an onion-factory worker, deeply moved by his song "U Smile." I think I teared up another two or three times before my next boyfriend left the stage two hours later.
Was he really that good? How about a "yeah, but" answer to that one? Certainly, I'd witnessed a fresh, young talent with heaps of energy and moves. But I also had experienced an ovarian shift during the concert, one that had flooded me with some serious hormones. So, maybe my tears were more manufactured than responsive. But they came, nonetheless.
Since that fateful night, my eyes have only grown more prolific in their unpredictable output, not only requiring me to buy glasses, but also forcing me to carry a wadded-up Kleenex tucked into my sleeve, much like my mother did throughout my youth. (An aside: I am pretty sure that, by the time I went to college, my mom was carrying the very same Kleenex that she had when I started middle school. I have no proof of this, however), beyond its rag-tag nature.)
Nowadays, I tear up at all kinds of things: when an African-American wins "Wheel of Fortune," when I light a candle at church, when I catch a glimpse of my children sleeping, when I hear a wonderful or funny song, when my period shows up again, . . . .
Even the tearing up seems to have a mind of its own. Consider Wednesday night, when Mark and I attended the Susan Werner concert. Now, this woman is everything you want in a person--she is wickedly funny, amazingly talented, utterly grounded, and quick on her toes. Within about three songs, both Mark and I were imagining having her as a friend, "imagining" being the key word. And, by the fourth song, my left eyeball began watering. Kind of profusely, at times. Didn't matter if the song was funny or moving, all my "good-feelings" emotions were being channeled through my left eyeball.
By intermission, that eye was pretty much out of control.
So be it, I say. I don't wear mascara, after all, so it's not like I'm striping my face in this new phase of life. I'm just living a little more emotionally and transparently, that's all.
Besides, if something on me is going to leak unpredictably, I'll take an eyeball any day of the week.
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