For someone who has almost no estrogen, I sure do cry a lot. I don’t mean in a bad way, but in a good way. I find myself moved to tears a lot lately, and by lately, I mean the past thirty years.
I used to cry whenever daughter Francesca was onstage, anywhere, doing anything. You should have seen me at her college graduation. I was positively deranged. The people sitting around me recoiled, and in the pictures from that day, I look drunk.
This past holiday season, I cried almost all the way through the Charlie Brown Christmas special. The waterworks began as soon as those cartoon kids started singing. When their mouths formed those perfect little circles, I simply could not deal.
I cry at all kinds of movies. I watched Fred Claus on TV and cried like a baby. Who cries at a Vince Vaughn movie? Worse, in a Gift-of-the-Magi moment this past Christmas, I gave Francesca a copy of Stephen Colbert’s holiday DVD, and she gave me one, too. When we watched it later, I cried at the end, when Stephen sings about believing in God.
It’s a comedy videotape.
I cried when I got my new puppy, too. The breeder, a lovely woman named Tina, put him in my arms, and I exploded with estrogen. Now I know why I have none left. It leaks out of my eyes whenever it gets the chance.
The latest example of what a crybaby I am took place when I took Mother Mary to the airport to go back to Miami. I know you’re thinking that I was crying because she was leaving, but to be completely honest with you, I’m not sure that’s the case. She’d been visiting me for a long time, and even the most devoted daughter will tell you that it’s never a hundred percent bad to put your mother on a plane outta town.
And most mothers would admit that, too.
So imagine my surprise when I started to get teary before we’d even reached the airport. I was so misty I couldn’t even find a parking space. If you’re weeping in short-term parking, do you have a problem?
Am I an estrogen junkie? A woman? Or merely Italian-American?
I managed to keep it together when we checked her in at the ticket counter and I asked for a pass to walk her to the gate. I do this because she sometimes gets confused, and you know how she feels about wheelchairs.
The same as she feels about second hearing aids.
So we had a bite to eat and I walked her to the plane, but by the time I hit the jetway, the tears were flowing like cheap wine. Mother Mary ended up comforting me.
“I’ll be alright, honey,” she said. “Hey, maybe I’ll meet somebody on the plane. You never know.”
Which only made me cry harder. Besides the fact that she had to cheer me up, I’ve had the same pathetic fantasy myself, and it’s never true. The only men you meet on the plane are married, which is the second worst thing about airplane travel, after honey pretzels.
Anyway, by the time we were at the door of the plane, I was such a basket case that the flight attendant rushed toward me with a cocktail napkin, for me to wipe my eyes. I swear to you, this is God’s truth. Her name was Susan, and she was on flight number 1651, USAir from Philly. Susan held me close while we discussed how much we loved our parents and she told me that she used to cry when she put her father on a plane, too.
By the way, Mother Mary was fine.
She found her way to her row by herself, and another flight attendant hoisted her roller bag into the overhead. She plopped herself into her seat, clutching her wrinkled plastic bag of crossword puzzle books, her special red pens, and a magnifying glass for when she reads. I got her a better one for Christmas, a big round circle, and when she uses it, she looks like a superannuated Nancy Drew.
I gave her a sloppy kiss on the cheek, then sobbed my way off the plane and back through all the people in the airport, who averted their eyes. I’ve learned that’s what most people do when you make a complete fool of yourself in public.
But there’s always a few of them who look back.
They’re the ones who can’t watch Charlie Brown, either.