I have been neglecting one of the critical and possibly most embarrassing symptoms of menopause – Hallmark Tears.  Jackie, author of the new breast cancer support and information blog www.secondbasedispatch.blogspot.com, reminded me of my omission when she recently shared this comment:

“I don’t mind sharing this and Robin, I’m hoping you may want to blog about it. I’ve noticed that heading into menopause reminds me a lot of 8th grade–it’s almost like the hormones are gathering up for a last hurrah before they leave. I feel as emotional exiting the reproductive years as I felt entering them. I can’t stand to watch those ASPCA commercials with Sarah McLaughlin and don’t even get me started on Marley and Me. Has anyone else noticed that?”

Not only have I noticed it – I believe I may have taken it to a whole new level.  I have to admit that animal cruelty issues and sad animal stories have plagued me throughout my whole life.  I can’t handle them.  Never could. When that Sarah McLaughlin ad comes on the probability that I will someday plummet through the nearest TV as I lunge across the room oblivious to impediments in a frantic effort to turn it off increases substantially.  But I’ve always been like that.  And yes, it does seem worse lately – but I’m not sure if that’s more McLaughlin or me.  And as far as Marley goes – he’s on his own – I’m not touching that one!

My own particular affliction is so much more embarrassing.  If you’ve been following Menologues at all you will know the pride with which I report that I have not crumpled into tears through torrential anger or gut wrenching sadness.  But I have clearly and inadvertently omitted the true bane of my existence – Hallmark Tears.  Hallmark Tears are the ones I shed when shopping for a friend’s birthday, wedding, anniversary and god help me, get well card (don’t even ask about Sympathy cards).  This phenomenon also extends to Extreme Home Makeover or virtually any Lifetime movie as well as poignant water cooler stories (even if I don’t know any of the people involved).  And I can pretty much guarantee that I will not be allowed into any theater where Les Mis is performing!  I am, as they say, a hot mess!

And I try so hard to come across with this tough, impenetrable exterior.  How often I find myself averting my face and inconspicuously swiping at the tears.  I know I’m not fooling anyone!  I listen to a co-worker ramble about taking a daughter to college for the first time.  She’s fine – and I’m swiping.  I dread the moment when she gives me that “tell me she isn’t crying because I parked in the faculty lot by mistake” look.  That’s when I know I’m busted.  And it’s pretty clear that no one is buying my lame excuses “man there’s a lot of dust around here this morning!”  My tough exterior shell has been dealt another near fatal blow.  And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it – those tears are unquestionably tougher than I am.  They can’t be stopped.

I can’t think of anything you can say that will make me feel less stupid.  Most just ignore my affliction but some feel the need to comment.  “Oh, see, you really are a softy.”  NOT HELPING!!!  If there’s one thing I can say it’s that you’re not alone.  And misery does seem to love company!  There – that’s all I’ve got.  Not helping is it?  I didn’t think so.