Let’s face it, it’s not always comfortable to see people crying. Speaking only for me, it’s a not a pretty sight; mascara dripping down, runny nose and all. That being said, those of us chronic criers feel that we are generally too tender-hearted for our own good. I can watch a coffee commercial during the holidays where the son comes home from overseas to be with his parents and devoted dog—and I’ll be sniveling and snorting all through it.

I’ve learned to live with it (anyone know if there’s a Cryers Anonymous anywhere?) over the years. I can’t help it, and most of us frequent cryers who cry about everything will agree with me; it’s hard to stop those flood gates. It’s not unusual for me to carry at least four handkerchiefs with me every day; sometimes more.

However, there is this: our tears come because we care and because we love. We wear our tender hearts on our sleeves, and we can’t help it. For years I was embarrassed about my tears, but now, at this age, who really cares? The greatest thing about getting older is that you can finally not give a damn about what other people think. We older folks are finally in the stage of who we really are; we don’t have to pretend any more.

So there—we can laugh or cry or have a hissy fit; whatever works for us. For me, it’s tears, and I’ve stopped being ashamed of them. That said, at least I am supporting the handkerchief industry.