My youngest and I were standing in line at Michael’s craft store, waiting behind a single customer. We were there to order balloons for my pregnant daughter’s gender reveal party.
We stood happily waiting, planning the rest of our day… order a cake, pick up more decorations and decide who would photograph and video the reveal.
The woman ahead of us at the register seemed to be taking a bit longer than normal to check out, but we still weren’t standing there an excessive amount of time.
A few minutes later, we heard a loud, theatrical huff behind us.
Turning toward the irritated voice, a forty-something woman dressed in denim shorts and a black tee shirt glared at us, followed by narrowing her eyes at the checkout. There was no one behind her and a line of empty self-checkout stations to our left.
She wasn’t trapped. In fact, there was no one preventing her from checking out.
We faced front, returning to our joyful conversation about all-things-baby.
Then, bang!
The woman who was behind us body slammed a solid piece of decorative wood and a few other items onto the counter next to where we stood.
Both of us jumped, our heads whipping toward the sound, watching the woman stomp away from the counter. The force was so severe, she announced her displeasure to half the store. I’m convinced shoppers several aisles away looked up to see what happened.
My daughter and I exchanged a wide-eyed look thinking, did she really just do that?
As the woman marched toward the exit, we leaned forward, squinting to be sure of what we were reading on her back.
“POWERED BY RAGE” was printed in giant lettering across the back of her tee shirt.
True story.
Daughter and I turned toward each other again, bursting into laughter. Half because we were coming down from the scare of 30 seconds earlier, half from the unmissed irony.
Later on, I considered how ridiculous the woman behaved. The impatience, number of empty self-serve registers, her outrageous response.
Events that were mere annoyances in past decades, managed by something called self-control, now erupt into public displays of anger. Mess with the wrong person and a confrontation ensues.
Depending on what transpires between rising from bed and waiting in a short line at a store hours later, I get it that sometimes you can handle no more.
But pounding your stuff down like a toddler? As a grown woman? Wearing those words?
The angry woman’s shirt might have been the name of a band. Perhaps some cultural reference I’m unaware of. Most likely, it was a personal anthem that I understood perfectly.
Rebellion. Defiance. Non-conformity.
I’m going out on a limb here, but when you dress yourself in the word RAGE, I’m thinking you firmly set your private agenda for the entire day ahead.
Tales from a Mid-Lifer 
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