I have mentioned before that I do not love my job. That was a gross understatement. I loathe my job. I dread going in and today I was driving to work in a fantasy state of mind. I daydreamed of walking in and telling my boss that this corporate nazi america micromanaged bullshit just isn’t for me. I pulled in to the parking lot, walked upstairs, put my purse in my locker and glanced into the manager’s office. There he was, looking miserable on the telephone but comfortable in his executive chair. He was viewing a spreadsheet on an oversized moniter and most likely discussing numbers and payroll trends with some uppety white-collar-oh-so-important person. So what did I do? I grabbed my walkie talkie and my name tag and proceeded to the drapery department.
I clocked in four minutes late. I no longer care that the letter “L” will be marked over my shift on the schedule in red indellible ink. “L” for “LATE”. (I should insist on management using lavender ink because the real world should be concerned about my feelings.) Never do they mark “SL” for “stayed late” to assist clueless customers in finding a product that does not exist.
I am tired of being looked at as someone who is incapable of performing the functions of a mundane job. I am tired of being talked to by people with absolutely no sense of humor and a stick shoved so far up there that in the rare instance it could be removed, the reality is they’ve grown quite fond of it. I am tired of getting my ass handed to me because I did not announce over the walkie to the M.O.D. that I would be straying seven feet away from my department.
Scenario of the day:
Customer walks by with a small item in her hand. Let’s say it was a spoon – it could not have possibly been larger than a spoon, so we’ll say it was a spoon. She was clearly browsing.
I said, “Hi, how are you?”
“Good, and you?”
I said, “fine, thank you.” The customer continued to browse.
At this point, a manager came up to me. “Becky, what didn’t you do?” She asked, making it clear she witnessed the entire interaction.
“What???”
“You didn’t offer her a cart.”
I said, “Neither did you.”
“Well I was watching you to make sure you were doing your job.”
“I’m sorry, I must have slipped out of robot mode.” Thats right – we greet every customer and ask if they need a cart, even if it is just a spoon. I’ve said hi to the same customer 5 or 6 times and they eventually look at me like I’m a crazy person. As they should. But its my job.
This afternoon I visited my boss from my previous job in corporate america. He is more miserable than I am, for he is that store manager on the phone with DMs and RMs and VPs and other abbreviated people. He is miserable on account of micro management and executive decisions made by people who look at reality through numbers on paper. Him and I have had plans for eight months to go get a beer. He’s too concerned about shrink and safety to frequent a bar anytime soon.
I do not want to be that girl stuck on the phone and concerned about dollars and HR and POs. I prefer to be the girl who leaves the – wait I must quote Kristen – “suck-you-in-till-the-memory-of-who-you-were-before-[retail]-is-just-a-vague-memory” job. I prefer to finish my education so that in case I ever go back to a title as dreadful as a “drapery specialist” I’ll at the very least be accredited in what makes me happy. I am determined that it will never come to that. I’ll be at the very least doing what makes me happy.
