I know there's something wrong when I'm crying during the Super Bowl. Maybe not crying, but misting. Is it because one of the Pittsburgh running backs is capping his career with a championship ring in his hometown? Not so much. Is it because Seattle's star quarterback, a onetime teammate of mine at Boston College, is losing a winnable game? Nope.
No. I tear and mist or whatever when the Dove "Know Self-Esteem" ad runs. You may have seen it--the commercial features a montage of portraits of young girls, accompanied by superimposed tags. A redhead "hates her freckles," an Asian "wishes she were blonde," a thin girl is "afraid she's fat," and a mildly unattractive girl is "afraid she's ugly." Set to a choir of girls singing about seeing "true colors shining through," this campaignforrealbeauty.com is designed to pluck our heartstrings and stir memories of the flat girl from first period nicknamed Bug Bites or the big-nosed-boy who earned "Beak of the Week" honors. Everyone is scathed. And now that culture has ushered in things like face transplants and MTVeens selling themselves as wannabe pop stars to win dates, there's never a better time to hock inner beauty and self-esteem. I understand why Dove thinks "every girl deserves to feel good about herself," and why we all deserve that.
But is this why I'm crying? Not exactly. I'm crying because I always cry.
Just last week, as I lay in bed with a steady stream of tears rushing over my three-day stubble, my girlfriend, Naomi, swept into my room and asked what was wrong. I could feel the eyes of her disapproval clamping tightly around my neck. Crying was a sign of weakness in her dysfamily. As the product of a rather chilly Japanese mom and a somewhat bookish anthropology nerd, Naomi can be detached, distant and emotionally reticent at times. Sharks can express more empathy.
"What's up?" she repeated.
"You know what's up!" I wanted to scream. The glow of the television reflected off my face. "L...ll...llaw...lost."
"Why do you feel lost?" she asked, her pitch surprisingly curving toward compassion. "Look," she paused, "if this is about losing your--"
"N...no...." I pointed to the tube and repeated, "Lost." She had picked a bad time to barge in. My hero, Lost's Dr. Jack Shepard, just saved another life, and I had succumbed to the miracle, the moment and, more likely, the lilting strings of the show's dramatic score.
"You're kidding, right?" she asked. I shook my head, no. She shook her head, too. "I've never dated an emotional wreck before."
What can I say? I'm a tearjerk. And soundtracks make it so much worse. If a movie, television show or commercial has violins, cellos or a choir of insecure girls singing a poignant Cyndi Lauper song, there's a decent chance I'm paying the Kleenex kids' way through college. Naomi suspects that if Philip Glass wrote a score for the six o'clock news, I'd need to be tranquilized.
The first sign of trouble came when I was five. E.T. broke my seal. Ever since the blockbuster hit the theaters, I've been a one-man monsoon at the movies. I didn't cry just once during E.T., I cried throughout it.
When his finger first glowed? You betcha.
When the scientists were closing in? Of course!
And when his bike took flight? So help me God.
Not only did I cry. I shouted: "Bad men! Leave E.T. alone!" Mom's hand muffled my outbursts, but she couldn't stifle my tears. Not then, nor during Rocky, Teen Wolf, Guns & Roses' "November Rain" video, or even the Smurfs.
Perhaps I invest and indulge so fully in these characters because I have yet to personally experience the heart wrenching agony of sudden and irreversible loss. Knock on wood, but my close friends and family still have pulses. Hence, my cinema sobs could be my way of preparing for life's grim inevitabilities. This is probably why I watch Hillary Swank movies over and over. My sniffles, shrieks and snot bubbles are exercises in empathy. So if the day ever arrives where I need to euthanize a paraplegic friend, or if my sister ever straps one on, poses as a guy and is shot seven times, I will have a precedent for those emotions.
Or maybe I need not overanalyze this at all.
Just as I'm trying to shield my tears from my friends a different commercial comes on. One for Desperate Housewives. It features Shaquille O'Neal shooting free throws. He pauses, then turns to the camera, teary-eyed, and says, "I'm sad Gabriel lost her baby." And while Shaq's sniffles are scripted, the message is clear. Boys do cry. Big, big boys, like him and me.
Thanks to Shaq I'm no longer ashamed of being a cinematic sap. Perhaps it's time to start embracing the tears as part of what makes me a unique guy. I'm finally getting to Know Self-Esteem. (Cue "True Colors.")
Now, could you please pass me a Kleenex?
posted by Scott Keneally @ 10:03 PM
1 Comments:
Good stuff, SK, maybe we'll cross paths soon,
dooley
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