This is a problem.

I'm sitting in the third row of foldout chairs within UVM's Ira Allen Chapel on Friday night, savoring every agonizing instant of the most heart-wrenching rendition of "I Saw" I've ever heard. Matt Nathanson is standing before me, cast in blue and pink sidelighting, speak-singing the words with helpless shrugs and a broken voice that adds even more devastation to the song - something I didn't think was possible, considering some of the previous versions I've heard. From the sounds of things, I'm witnessing Matt's soul shattering right in front of me.

And I am crying. Not the all-out Cliched Girl Sobbing At the Rock Show kind of heaving sobs; I am happy to report that I have never been, nor would ever be, That Girl.

(My musical history has proven that in most cases, I'm a sigher. Not a crier.)

But there are a pair of embarrassingly bright eyes attached to my face, and they're full of all the tears except one, which has slipped out and fallen down my right cheek. I'm absurdedly aware of its presence, and I'm blinking like mad to prevent any other stray tears from giving me away.

What do I do? I can't reach up and wipe the tear away, because I don't want my friends to see that I'm a sap (despite the fact that they know it to be the case). And Matt can see me from this spot, and I certainly don't want him to catch me crying, because I don't want him to believe That Girl is in the third row of his show. But I can't let it stay there, burning a trail down my face because it's presence is all I can think about as he sings the song. It's distracting me and bothering me at the worst possible moment.

Left with no other possible courses of action, I lean down to move the purse that rests at my feet. As I do so, I take a quick swipe at my face. But Beth catches the maneuver, and I catch her catching me. I look up quickly, eyes just as obnoxiously watery.

Damn him and the decision to avoid the usual ironic musical composition. He's normally the master of coupling despondent lyrics with upbeat instrumentation and, likewise, drenching optimistic lyrics with melancholy chords. I often laugh about how he does so because he realizes the brutal intensity of his talent.

But here he is, with "Sad Songs," perpetuating the emotion with a straightforward and beautiful approach, making me cry and, likewise, making me realize that I love attending his shows. I adore knowing that I'm going to ruin any little videos or concert calls I make with the sound of my laughter coming through on the audio track. I enjoy the opportunity to be encouraged - nay, commanded - to belt out Journey songs at the top of my lungs. I look forward to the opportunities to hear entirely new songs, slightly older songs revised since last time or the familiar material of which my friends and I know nearly every nuance.

But I also have to realize that I have been waiting for weeks for the opportunity to have spent money for a few moments of feeling absolutely, brilliantly miserable. And that I'm loving each moment of it because it's the closest thing to a singer-songwriter completely reliving a moment or sharing an experience with an audience found playing in venues today. Agony, compassion, disbelief and all.

That and, well, that he'll start talking about MTV's new Ashley Parker Angel show and get me laughing all over again.