The Crying Game.(Editorial)

Byline: Linda Wells, Editor in Chief

I ran into a friend at the movies, a writer I'd worked with years ago. We were in line at the concession stand at one of those theaters that sells carrot cake rather than microwave nachos. "Here's the problem with you," he declared, completely out of nowhere. A friend of his had said that the only way for a woman to get whatever she wants is "to go into the boss's office and cry. And you don't do that."

He's right about one thing: I'm not a crier. I am so determined never to weep manipulatively or girlishly that I've pretty much forced my tear ducts to turn off. I don't cry when I'm stopped by a traffic cop for speeding. I was as dry-eyed at Atonement as I was at Superbad. Force me to watch a loop of AT&T commercials, fluffy puppies, and failed American Idol contestants, and I won't even break open a box of Kleenex.

This stoicism seems appropriate at work, despite the comment by my friend at the movie. It didn't come naturally, though. At my first job interview out of college, a magazine executive spent a full 45 minutes ridiculing me and my pathetic excuse for a resume. His advice, as I remember it, was, "You should just give up now." I sat in his wood-paneled office mustering all my willpower to get through the meeting, down the elevator, and around the corner before sobbing. Years later, when I worked at a newspaper, my boss held up the first story I had edited and shouted, "I'd give this a C minus if I were feeling generous." His ...