That dress would go well with your tears, fellas

A feature piece by the Daily Telegraph's Judith Woods entitled "Please Save Us From The Boo-Hoo Boys" recently appeared. Ms. Woods criticized the plethora of sports figures who get weepy at every disappointing result and society's acceptance that men crying in public is a good thing. Just a few snipets from this article should suffice to get her point across to you, dear reader:

Another sporting weekend, another great big crybaby hits the headlines. Forget this summer's metrosexual cardigan, these days the accessory du jour for any strapping bloke with a five o'clock shadow you could sand floors with is a nice lace-trimmed hankie—proper cotton, mind you, so as not to chafe his septum.
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[T]he first step to reclaiming masculinity is to dry those pretty little eyes, reapply your manscara, touch up your guyliner and get right back to the testosterone-saturated stadium/building site/trading floor. Oh, and how about relocating your backbone while you're at it?
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[I]t seems as though the keening and lamenting is set to continue as the Olympics are about to start. I shall be keeping my own score card, not of medals, but of bawling athletes.

Well, mee-ooow!, Ms. Woods! This demonstrates how men just can't win. If we don't cry enough, we're cold fish, emotional cripples, who should get in touch with our emotions more. But if we do cry, we're told that we're sissies. Honestly, ladies, you see the mixed messages you constantly bombard us guys with?
But Ms. Woods would love me. You see, I never cry. On occasions I've come close, but fought the tears back every time, harrumphed, and just got on with my life.
I have a huge problem with crying. Even if, admittedly, it would have made me feel better during times when I could have used a weep, I kept a stiff upper lip nonetheless. Personally, I would despise myself if I cried. My own consciousness says, "men just don't do that!" And so I don't.
I get angry. I rant and rave. And I also get sad. I have melancholy moments that keep me awake. Tears never get in the way of my anger or melancholy, though. Frankly, if I wanted to cry, I might as well throw on one of my wife's sundresses while I'm at it. Because that's how I would feel about myself.
I do remember the last time I was lachrymose. I broke down while watching coverage of the state funeral for Reagan on the BBC. I shouldn't have to apologize to anyone for that, not even to myself.
But, ordinarily, I just don't go for tears.
Ms. Woods quotes Kathleen Parker from her book Save The Males: Why Men Matter and Women Should Care:

"At the same time that men have been ridiculed, the importance of fatherhood has been diminished, along with other traditionally male roles of father, protector and provider. The exemplar of the modern male is the hairless, metrosexualized man and decorator boys who turn heterosexual slobs into perfumed ponies. But in the dangerous world in which we really live, it might be nice to have a few guys around who aren't trying to juggle pedicures and highlights."

Amen to that. And I'm one of those few guys. I refuse to give into the whole metrosexual craze. I'm one of those fellas who, upon waking up, throws on a t-shirt and jeans, runs a comb through his hair, is perfectly happy to ignore the stubble on his face, and just goes out to deal with the world and whatever it wants to throw at him. A few sprays of cologne is my only vice. (I do like to smell nice).
I do have my ways of dealing with life and all of its resulting frustrations. Crying is not, and shall never be, one of them.