The Vulcan Syndrome (Marty)

Men in the South -- at least those whose mamas I have met -- are generally raised to keep their emotions to themselves. They are rock hard with a fabulous smile; stone silent while opening the door for you; will fight for you 'til the death...while never ever telling you exactly how they feel about you, or anything else for that matter. This exactly describes both my father and my husband, and about any other Southern raised boy I've ever met. They seem so strong and solid, chivalrous and charming. That is...until they get older. And then we have the phenomenon I like to call....The Vulcan Syndrome.

Those of you who are Star Trek fans will know exactly what I'm talking about. Vulcans are a race of humanoids who are bred to give logic all of their brain power while suppressing their more wishy-washy and manipulatable emotions. They are deemed unnecessary for a full functioning life. The consequence is that, as vulcans age, they are no longer able to keep full suppression on their emotions, and they come out in explosive ways. Outrageous mania, rampant rage, or full fits of uncontrollable bawling. The controlling mechanism effectively breaks, unleashing a river of lifelong suppressed feelings.

I've noticed this consequence in my 72-year-old father, and in other men of his generation. My father gets inexplicably and uncontrollably weepy at the most inopportune moments...he really had to have help to finish his toast at my wedding reception (yes, I know, fathers are allowed to shed a tear at their daughter's weddings, but blubbering like a schoolchild during the toast? Really?). He's done the same just having a conversation wtih me about life. Never, in my youth, would my father allowed me to see this side of him. It actually weirds me out a little bit.

I am not the crying girl. I am not the girl who bawls at beautiful wedding dresses, or throws crying fits to get her way with her boyfriend. I do not cry when I am "happy." I am not the girl who uses tears to manipulate other people. I am the angry girl...the one who will squint and puff out and very quietly (or very loudly, whichever is appropriate) but strongly encourage you to see things my way. This has worked out very well for me. Until my recent discovery.

Apparently, the Vulcan Syndrome age for women is....36. At 36 I found myself tearing up at "A League of Their Own" one day on television even though I had seen it a hundred times. The ending where all the ladies of the women's pro league were welcomed into the hall of fame, got to me. At 37 I found myself tearing up at a f**king Hallmark commercial. And by the ripe old age of 38? "A League of Their Own" will put me straight through a box of tissues. I cry when the people on "America's Got Talent" realize their lifelong dream of performing in front of a crowd and are, themselves, crying. After serving on a heartbreaking jury trial for 8 days in April, I came home with a 6-pack, a bag of Munchos, and a jar of Pepperocini and went through them all just before beginning my two-hour bawling session on behalf the people in the trial. That one shocked the shit ouf ot me. Hell...I teared up at Linda's last entry!

I mean, I can't even claim "hormones" as a factor. If you've read this blog, you already know I have no children, which is when a lot of women find that their emotions go haywire. So imagine my surprise that here I am--- a broken Vulcan. But at least I have learned something about myself along the way. I know that my experiences have given me appreciation of and respect for the unknown factor. I know that I will embrace whatever comes next. I know that the young twenty-something friend of mine starting life with her new husband loves that I share her happiness so openly on my face. And I know that tissues are expensive...toilet paper works fine.