Sunday, November 02, 2008
I had forgotten how much I hated working retail. Oh sure, I remembered quite clearly that I hated it, but I had forgotten those tiny details of why that is. On my first day back, I worked in the stockroom, readying it for inventory. I was so happy to get that assignment, because frankly, the fewer hours I spend in front of customers, the better. They annoy me. So I spent that first 8 hours climbing ladders and stacking clothes. I left exhausted and sore, my sinuses and throat dry as a bone and full of lint and dust. It sucked, but I'd still trade that in a heartbeat over serving in the fitting room again.
These days every moment I spend alone has my mind wandering into darker thoughts about how fucked up everything is, how hopeless it all seems. The kids are happier when they're with their dad. I'm shuffling money around almost hourly to try to keep the bills paid. I'm looking at 40 in less than 2 weeks and my life is nothing like it was supposed to be. I'm overweight, I'm so broke I just qualified for medicaid, we just had to sign another year's lease on an apartment in a complex that accepts section 8, and I can barely put enough food on the table to keep my kids fed, and to add to that, I'm working a job I could have gotten straight out of high school. The irony is, I could afford it better if I had done that--instead, I'm paying $200 a month in student loans for an education I'll never use. I have to come to terms with the fact that my stupid dream of my own business was just a dillusion. I think it was probably September since I last went more than an hour in solitude without crying. So to put me in front of the public and expect me to smile and offer "excellent customer service" is like strapping a piano to my back and asking me to run track. I do my best, but it has to come out sometime, and I have cried all the way home every day. But I do it because I have no other option. I have to accept that this is my crappy life and it will probably never get better.
So no, when I smile and ask if I can help you find something, I really don't want to. I could give a crap if you find your fucking khakis or button-fly jeans. But I do it.
And then, while dragging that baby grand piano up and down the fitting room hallway for the fourth hour in a row, I'm hit with those niggling details about why I hate it so much.
A wife is standing outside the fitting room, hubby inside opens the door to show her the jeans he's trying on. "Turn around." she tells him. As I pass by, she is lifting his shirt to see if the jeans fit his ass properly. All I see is a blaze of ass hair sticking out of the waistband. I need to wash my eyeballs.
And every time I enter an evacuated fitting room, I face a mystery. First the obvious: did they leave anything behind? There's a good chance they left behind at least one article of clothing (too much work to hand it to me) or an empty hanger. No big. A lot of times, they've removed the size stickers from the items and adhered them nicely to the floor (I just love getting down on the floor to scrape them up). And every now and then they've left me a gift--a dirty tissue, wadded up food wrappers, an empty Starbucks cup, whathaveyou... It's not unheard of to find bodily fluids of various origin (I suppose if I were a nurse this would bother me less). The less obvious mystery, and perhaps more unsettling, is the smell they leave behind. Yes, let me tell you something: when you remove your clothing in a 4 sq foot closed in room, you leave a smell behind, no matter how clean you think you are. And not everyone even cares if they're clean, so you can imagine the cacophany of odors I am subjected to just by walking into the room to clean it out for the next person. I smell your cologne, I smell your deodorant. I smell your sweat and your B.O., and I smell your feet. Usually, it's just a vaguely moist, earthy smell with a hint of whatever deodorant you use, but sometimes it's a maddening wall of fungus or methane that can make your eyes water. And it makes me so glad to have gone to college, so glad to have tried so hard to ensure a better life for my kids--why dream of running a business where I can create delicious and beautifully decorated foods when I can spend my days smelling your feet and picking up your trash?
These days every moment I spend alone has my mind wandering into darker thoughts about how fucked up everything is, how hopeless it all seems. The kids are happier when they're with their dad. I'm shuffling money around almost hourly to try to keep the bills paid. I'm looking at 40 in less than 2 weeks and my life is nothing like it was supposed to be. I'm overweight, I'm so broke I just qualified for medicaid, we just had to sign another year's lease on an apartment in a complex that accepts section 8, and I can barely put enough food on the table to keep my kids fed, and to add to that, I'm working a job I could have gotten straight out of high school. The irony is, I could afford it better if I had done that--instead, I'm paying $200 a month in student loans for an education I'll never use. I have to come to terms with the fact that my stupid dream of my own business was just a dillusion. I think it was probably September since I last went more than an hour in solitude without crying. So to put me in front of the public and expect me to smile and offer "excellent customer service" is like strapping a piano to my back and asking me to run track. I do my best, but it has to come out sometime, and I have cried all the way home every day. But I do it because I have no other option. I have to accept that this is my crappy life and it will probably never get better.
So no, when I smile and ask if I can help you find something, I really don't want to. I could give a crap if you find your fucking khakis or button-fly jeans. But I do it.
And then, while dragging that baby grand piano up and down the fitting room hallway for the fourth hour in a row, I'm hit with those niggling details about why I hate it so much.
A wife is standing outside the fitting room, hubby inside opens the door to show her the jeans he's trying on. "Turn around." she tells him. As I pass by, she is lifting his shirt to see if the jeans fit his ass properly. All I see is a blaze of ass hair sticking out of the waistband. I need to wash my eyeballs.
And every time I enter an evacuated fitting room, I face a mystery. First the obvious: did they leave anything behind? There's a good chance they left behind at least one article of clothing (too much work to hand it to me) or an empty hanger. No big. A lot of times, they've removed the size stickers from the items and adhered them nicely to the floor (I just love getting down on the floor to scrape them up). And every now and then they've left me a gift--a dirty tissue, wadded up food wrappers, an empty Starbucks cup, whathaveyou... It's not unheard of to find bodily fluids of various origin (I suppose if I were a nurse this would bother me less). The less obvious mystery, and perhaps more unsettling, is the smell they leave behind. Yes, let me tell you something: when you remove your clothing in a 4 sq foot closed in room, you leave a smell behind, no matter how clean you think you are. And not everyone even cares if they're clean, so you can imagine the cacophany of odors I am subjected to just by walking into the room to clean it out for the next person. I smell your cologne, I smell your deodorant. I smell your sweat and your B.O., and I smell your feet. Usually, it's just a vaguely moist, earthy smell with a hint of whatever deodorant you use, but sometimes it's a maddening wall of fungus or methane that can make your eyes water. And it makes me so glad to have gone to college, so glad to have tried so hard to ensure a better life for my kids--why dream of running a business where I can create delicious and beautifully decorated foods when I can spend my days smelling your feet and picking up your trash?
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