In January 2017, my mother died and I couldn’t cry.  At her memorial my nieces were in tears sharing stories of their grandma - her love of poetry, her faith, her lipstick. I could feel their grief, but I couldn’t feel mine and I couldn't cry. 


I couldn’t feel anything. 


Grocery shopping a few weeks later, I rolled into the 12 item express line with 13 items, which the cashier assures me is fine. She's scanning and I'm putting my card in the reader when the man behind me starts talking.


“Must be nice,” he said.


I glanced at him with a smile,“Pardon?”


“I said,” he got louder, “it must be nice when the rules don’t apply to you.” I surely looked confused because he continued, “You must be special.” It was not meant as a compliment.

 

I looked at the cashier but she is studiously avoiding eye contact. Anxiety is coming in hot as I punch in my PIN and silently will the bagger to please move faster. As I'm taking my receipt from the cashier, he turns his ire toward her, "If you aren't going to enforce your fucking rules," he snarls, "don't put up a fucking sign."

Now I'm pissed.

This asshole thinks he's a big man, scaring the shit out of a kid just doing their minimum wage job. I grab my bags and turn back to him, "If this is the worst thing that happens to you today," I say in a thin, weak voice, "then you've had a pretty great day, asshole." He looked at me with a nasty smirk then turned away from me to pay for his 2 (TWO!) items. 

I walked out of the store on legs of jello and hurried to my car. The second I hit the lock button I burst into tears. What in the actual fuck is wrong with me? I couldn't cry for my mother but this jackwagon had me bawling in my car?!

I attacked the rest of my day with self righteous fury coursing through my veins. "Express Man" at the forefront of my mind. I thought about how pathetic he was for letting something so minor piss him off to the point of confrontation. I imagined him telling his coworkers, his wife, his friends at the bar about his run in with an entitled bitch. I ran errands, did laundry and made dinner in a foul mood. I picked up my kids from school and barely tuned in to what they were saying, impatiently waiting my turn to share my victim statement. 

Anyone unfortunate enough to interact with me got an earful about Express Man. Like a sponge I soaked up their anger on my behalf, using their attention and pity to self-soothe.

I didn't tell anyone about the crying. 

That night, Spouse was tucking me into bed. He leaned down to kiss me goodnight, “I’m sorry that dude ruined your day.”  


“He didn’t ruin my day,” I insisted.

 


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As soon as Spouse shut the bedroom door, I closed my eyes and started my nightly chat with Mary. I tried to pray for Express Man, attempting to work up sympathy for him. How sad his life must be to expend all that energy on something that cost him maybe 20 seconds. How pathetic to terrorize both me and the poor cashier just to make himself feel better.

Strangely, my eyes started leaking. Laying there in my comfy bed, in my dark room I tried to unravel why I was so...unravelled. I wasn't sobbing, but tears continued to pour out of my eyes and I couldn't make them stop.

An hour later with a pounding head and a blotchy face, I arrived at a sickening realization.

 

I am Express Man.

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I was exhausted - mentally and emotionally. I had a clear thought as I was finally falling asleep. “I don’t ever want to feel this way again.”

It was time to chart a new course for my life. 


It was time for Zefu.