Don't Wear Heels in the Express Line

By Ann

My feet are throbbing as I stand in line in heels waiting for the people in the express lane to get on with their lives in an express manner.   This line states that it’s for 7 items or less  with a lighted up sign that rivals the flashy billboards in Vegas.  Nonetheless, I suspect that  the old lady in front of me probably didn’t notice.  I contemplate this as she puts dozens of items on the short conveyor belt in an agonizingly slow manner.  Once she finally makes it to the end, she seizes the opportunity to have a small town chat with the pimply teenager behind the register.  I sigh in my head and pray to any heavenly being who will  listen to please save me from the most dreaded of dreads.  Please don’t let it be that.  That which every debit card owning person dreads from the antiquated numb nuts of the world. 

With bated breath, I watch the older woman’s arthritic hand reach into an oversized purse and pull out (gasp)…. A CHECKBOOK!!!!!!

My prayers were ignored and I watch in horror as the woman tries to write out a check with shaky, unstable hands.  She pauses almost every thirty seconds to ask how to spell the store’s name or to ask how much again, or to talk about her dog who is at the vet overnight due to a bad case of tapeworms.  I learn that a dog can get these worms from eating poop.  I learn a lot of things about this woman while I wait since I cannot even sigh out loud as I would rather get punched in the stomach than to be mean to an older person.  So I do nothing but smile on the outside and scream a carnal and gutteral scream on the inside.   I am not a patient person.  I am not even remotely patient.  In fact, I am above average in the arena of neurosis and anxiety. 
But my experience as a public defender has helped me hide some of my rage. After all, on a daily basis, I am bombarded with insults from the general public, from my clients, from other attorneys, and from the bench.  I counsel the worst of the worst during their lowest of experiences and filter a never-ending stream of bad news to their families.  I talk to people incarcerated in human sized cages and try to negotiate deals with little to no leverage or bargaining power.  I make arguments to a court that recognizes me as little more than a potted plant used for judicial decoration while it administers rulings wholly inconsistent with my arguments.  

I do this and try my best to keep my feelings and thoughts to myself.   In short, my job as a public defender has enabled me to sit through this tortuous grocery line adventure without spontaneously combusting. 

When I am finally released from the line and I have paid for my two cans of dog food, I walk triumphantly throught the automatic doors.  The sun hits my face and the wind blows through my hair as I almost sing out loud that I AM FREE! 

My independence song gets caught in my throat at the sudden realization that I have no idea where I parked my car. 
I did it again.   

Well at least I wore a good pair of shoes.