The personal crises of others will always find you once you’ve started your slave labor at the office. Regardless of how long you’ve been working in the building that, if you’re lucky, has windows, co-workers of yours will tend to have no problem “expressing themselves” in ways that signify nothing of any true meaning, but still indicate, at the core, that they actually care–whereas you do not. Hence, your preference for stoicism in the face of your employer wanting so badly to see enthusiasm (crying counts as such).
Even when they’re bawling to you from the cube next to you, in the conference room or in the K-cup area, you maintain your cool, not wanting to touch them as a means of comfort because 1) they’re probably dressed in some unwashed yarn that will emanate a smell from it with one pat and 2) you could be sued for sexual harassment. Still, you don’t want to come across as totally insensitive–which, you aren’t, you just happen to know what’s actually important in this world, and it’s nothing involving work drama or the personal dramas of office workers based in Westchester or New Jersey. So you stand next to them silently, occasionally nodding and just waiting for the meltdown to pass until you can melt down your own microwaveable meal and retreat to your desk where ass growing can continue in peace.