Don't Cry For Me, Argentina

Tracey celebrates her 53rd birthday by crying all the way to Heathrow

Photo by Mercedes Álvarez on Unsplash

I turned 53 last Thursday and celebrated with a mediocre Bloody Mary and a good cry. I was on a 16-hour flight from Buenos Aires to London. Spending my birthday at 35,000 feet, a long way from my kids, my dog, my loved ones, I was feeling a little blue. So when a kind flight attendant brought me a glass of champagne and a little cake with a candle in it to wish me a happy birthday, I burst into tears immediately. And that's how I stayed for the next two hours.

I've been taking a low-dose of Prozac for the past six years, so crying is something I haven't done for a long time. I have been to devastatingly sad funerals, seen the world behave at its worst, stubbed my toe on a door, and I've not produced a single tear. It's a shame because I used to love crying. I did it every day for more than ten years. A meaty Hollyoaks storyline, a sad advert on the TV, losing a shoe, my emotions were on such a hair-trigger, I would cry at the pop of a balloon.

But since being diagnosed with a smidge of depression and popping my tasty blue and white pills every day, I am no longer that blubbery, snotty sobbing woman you avoid on the train. That is until I fly.

I explain to the crew that I'm not having a breakdown (I don't think, although one can never be sure). Flying is notoriously emotional. In fact, scientists have come up with various reasons why we're likely to cry more when we fly. It's partly from the lack of oxygen, which can heighten our emotions, and the lower air pressure can cause our moods to fluctuate. Research by Dr Ad Vingerhoets, a professor of social and behavioural sciences at Tilburg University in the Netherlands, also found the feeling of powerlessness is a big factor as to why we feel teary in the skies.

Rhonda and I flew to Tampa last year and we tested this theory by drinking numerous Bloody Marys and watching a movie together. Empire of the Light starring the marvellous Olivia Coleman was about a middle-aged woman who felt rather sad and we both howled our way through it, much to the concern of our fellow passengers.

I was watching it about a minute behind Rhonda and she remembers watching my face crumple at the part which broke her, with delight, and we both sobbed together until the very end. It was glorious.

Virgin Atlantic once conducted a survey which saw 55% of passengers admitting to crying when flying. This led to the airline putting 'weep warnings' on certain films like Lion, Moonlight and Bridget Jones's Baby, advising passengers of emotional scenes. It says 'The following film contains scenes which may cause viewers of a sensitive disposition to cry, weep, sob, wail, howl, bawl, bleat or mewl. Please alert Cabin Crew if you need a tissue or a shoulder to cry on.'

On one flight, I was three gins down and wailing like a scorned woman. My seat neighbour put his hand on my arm, uncomfortably concerned, and gently asks if I'm okay. Thankfully for him, I was not in crisis. I was watching A Street Cat Named Bob, a gorgeous, life-affirming film about a man and his cat.

I think my most memorable cry-fly experience was on a flight to Mauritius. It was the second leg of a long flight and again, after a couple of sherries, I was happily engrossed in the Theory of Everything. As soon as Stephen Hawking's health started to deteriorate, I lost all self-control. Wailing inconsolably, I attracted the attention of several concerned cabin crew and eventually had to stop the film to compose myself in the bathroom. I've since watched the film on the ground and the effect wasn't nearly as dramatic.

Far from being ashamed, I actually enjoy a nice cathartic howl. On a recent flight, I purposely watched Lion, the Oscar-nominated true story of a five-year-old boy who lost his family after falling asleep on a train. It was a joyous two hours of blubbering. While Lion would have been equally as emotional on the ground, I have no excuse for getting a lump-in-the-throat at Sausage Party. Fnar, fnar.

Photo by Ashley Byrd on Unsplash

We just want to thank every one of readers and subscribers for being part of our Wayward Wimmin journey, for reading and sharing our nonsense and leaving us some glorious comments. We're super excited about 2025, we have BIG plans, so watch this space.

In the meantime, crack open the Baileys and have a very Merry Christmas.

Here’s to a wayward 2025.

Love Tracey and Rhonda xx