Umm, Hillary dear,
let me get you a tissue

Robyn’s Hood
By Robyn McCloskey

I have to admit that I am one of those people who have very little time for what I must refer to as "the weepy woman." The type who wears her heart on her sleeve, her emotions written all over her face.
You know, the Elisabeth Hasselbeck kind.
The kind who, when you run into them at the supermarket and make the mistake of casually throwing out a "Hey, how are you?", will spend the next 27 minutes crying on your shoulder about whatever minutiae are going on in their lives, simultaneously wiping away buckets of tears.
While I’m sidestepping the puddles, I make a mental note to self: "Next time I see this woman at the store, head for another aisle."
One thing I can never be accused of — and believe me, I’ve been accused of a lot — is being a "weepy woman." It is on the rarest of occasions that I will even choke up at a sad movie’s climactic ending, let alone cry. I have the ability to remain stoic at the saddest of funerals. Even when my PMS is at its worst I still manage to hold back the waterworks.
I’d always thought that’s the one thing I had in common with Hillary Clinton. But then I saw her in dire need of a Kleenex. Who knew girlfriend had it in her? Who knew there actually was a heart in that chest cavity? Who knew she was so in touch with her feminine side?
Or was she?
Being the non-crying cynic that I am, I can’t help but wonder whether her tear-duct breakdown in New Hampshire a couple of weeks ago was all staged. Was the woman in the audience who wanted to know how Hillary finds the will to keep going really just a plant? Was Hill’s weepy response a carefully crafted manipulation by some brilliant speechwriter? Or, if it was genuine, did it warm the cockles of Mr. Clinton’s heart to see such passion, such tears by the woman he claims to love or at least "stand by" should she gain easy access to the Lincoln bedroom?
I don’t know. I honestly can’t tell if it was real or rehearsed, spontaneous or planned. Those two crazy kids are hard to figure out. On one hand, everything they do seems so manipulative, so well-planned. Like the time they were "unknowingly photographed" dancing on the beach at the height of the Monica Lewinsky scandal.
I’ve heard women say the beach scene had to be unplanned because no woman of a certain age and weight would, in her right mind, allow such an unflattering photograph to be taken of her in a bathing suit, let alone published for the entire world to see.
I wholeheartedly understand that. Yet you can’t help but admire the genius behind it if that photo-op was a setup, just like those tears Hill shed while on the campaign trail in New Hampshire. Maybe that state should change its motto from "Live Free or Die" to "Live Free or Cry."
I do know that her little crying jag was nothing to sniff at. The news media immediately took note that Ms. Rodham-Clinton’s little emotional breakdown had caused a lot of voters to change their mind about her. They weren’t sure about that steely façade. Now they were melting in sympathy, almost wishing they could give her a group hug because of a few tears shed at an opportune moment.
Personally, I’m still undecided about who gets my vote. I can tell you that my vote will not be swayed by a crying jag. Just as Tom Hanks told that weepy woman on his team in A League of Their Own — "There’s no crying in baseball!!" — I similarly believe "There’s no crying in politics!!"
Do you think a Barack breakdown or a McCain meltdown or even an Edwards eruption would sway votes? If so, then I better get to Wawa. I don’t have enough Kleenex in the house.
Only time and tears will tell, I guess. But all this speculation and show of emotion, whether genuine or not, has convinced stoic ol’ me of one thing.
Should I ever run into Hillary Clinton at the supermarket, I’ll be hiding in frozen foods. ••
Robyn McCloskey’s column appears each week in the Northeast Times. She can be reached at crmccloskey@verizon.net