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In the opening ceremonies of the 2008 Olympics in Beijing, the world that emerged from the floor of the Bird's Nest stadium did it to me.

Illuminated and perfect, with athletes twirling and running and leaping around its circumference, suspended by invisible support in apparent defiance of gravity, the effect even on television was magical. I was moved. Which means: I cried. Even cynicism for the One World One Dream feel-good propaganda didn't stem the flow.

It happened again watching Jujie Luan, who returned from retirement to compete for Canada in fencing at the age of 50. She won gold for China 24 years ago, then moved to Edmonton in 1989, where she became a coach and raised a family. She didn't do very well in the competition, but that didn't matter. "I want to show people that I am still young," she explained of her decision to return to the Games.

Oh dear, pass me a tissue, please.

I cry easily. All right, fine. I'm a wimp. And don't think I'm not embarrassed about it sometimes.

I tear up over low-brow, clichéd fare. If you must know, sometimes even a Tim Hortons commercial. I weep at the opera. Once, I erupted over ancient volcano flows in Maui on a sightseeing trip in a helicopter. The scene was so very beautiful, and the pilot was playing the instrumental theme music from Chariots of Fire. The combination was otherworldly and unexpected and ... well, maybe you had to be there.

It's a handicap, I figure. Honestly, I feel like someone with a bladder control problem or a man who suffers from premature ejaculation. My little release is always spontaneous and uncontrollable.

"Oh, you are just menopausal," some of my friends say.

To which I haughtily reply, "Actually, I am not."

But I do think it has something to do with getting older. And it's not something that happens just to women - despite what my brothers and my three grown sons think. A male friend of mine, in his late 40s, told me recently that he cries more easily than ever before - at the Olympics, the singing of the national anthem, things people say, even sucky commercials. "I think it's because we have lived through stuff, through happiness and triumphs and tragedy and disappointments."

The Olympics take the gold for jerking loose the tears, though. The television networks do their share of emotional manipulation, cutting away to the devastated family of the loser or the jubilant parents of the winner. I bet the producers talk in their little control booths about getting the all-important "mom shot." I am a sucker for all of it. Clearly, the network types know that vaulting over a barrier is not just about vaulting over some silly stick. It's about surmounting mental and physical obstacles.

We are always told that focus and dedication will bring success, but how many of us really put that into action?

The Games are a reality show with a lofty incentive - to push the limit, to find the inner motivation, to be the best. They are not untainted by commercial incentive or national self-promotion and propaganda, but beyond the trappings, on the track or in the swimming lanes, it is the human will to prevail that is on display.

Consider American swimmer Eric Shanteau, who put off surgery for testicular cancer to compete in the Games. Who could not watch him swim close to his personal best in the 200-metre breaststroke and cry a bit for all his determination to forget, temporarily, a devastating diagnosis?

It's true that an athlete who becomes a star in the Olympics can go on to fame and some fortune shilling cereal or sports equipment, but you only have to listen to the competitors to understand that what drives them is often something as fragile as an idea - patriotism, maybe, a dream they had as a child, or just to see what all their training will allow them to accomplish. For many of us, the only incentive we really understand is money.

We are also watching for affirmation of perfection in the human body. American swimming specimen Michael Phelps comes to mind. We long for that perfection - the alignment of top physical form with mental discipline. But it is so elusive. Sometimes, a turn on the podium feels like nothing short of a defiant existential declaration. We are mere mortals with flaws and fleeting moments of perfection, but there is the possibility of something greater, something transcendent, when we put our minds, our bodies and our spirits to the task. We can be temporary gods, if we choose to be.

Many of us live daily with an understanding, however subconscious, of our unfulfilled potential for success and happiness. We stay in safe jobs because we don't dare try for what we really want. We remain in bad marriages because we fear what hardships will come when we are on our own. And often, we leave good-enough marriages because we don't want to do the work - marshaling the inner strength, patience, generosity and empathy - that helps bring about a long, successful relationship.

We are inured to little, quotidian defeats, from having that piece of chocolate pecan pie when we vowed to cut calories to hearing ourselves say the small-minded thing to a friend, family member or colleague at work. Setbacks become our convenient excuses for why something cannot be accomplished. Our demons win more often than our best selves, it seems.

One witnesses rich human subtext when somebody stands on the podium in triumph or moves away from the crowd, crestfallen in defeat.

Cry me an Olympic-sized pool of tears, I say. There is nothing shameful about being a champion of Wimpydom.