The Closed-Toed World

I finally started going on interviews for sales positions and was offered a job in sales. Great. Quite possibly the only type of job that I didn’t want. I attended classes for sales techniques and how to approach customers. Everyday, I imagined what it would feel like to quit. I am not a salesperson. If you told me that you didn’t need something, I would say “Okay.” I don’t care if I make the sale. I don’t want to approach people who don’t want to be approached. And I don’t want to wear closed toed shoes in July. That is just stupid.

Everyday now I am given sales quotas to hit. I am spoken down to by customers who have no clue whom Anne Sexton or Edmund Spenser are. They have no idea what I am worth. They scream at me and ask to speak to my supervisor because I gave them half of the attitude that they gave me. People are hysterical nutcases when it comes to buying. I worked on one woman’s account on Monday and told her about all of the charges that she was about to receive. She came in Wednesday screaming about the same problems she was having before. But there weren’t any problems. She called me a liar and I had to stand there and take it. I am expected to say “I know that you are feeling frustrated, Mrs. Smith. I will do the best that I can to help you out of this situation.” I want to say, “Piss off, Mrs. Smith. I don’t care that you are frustrated. You are a miserable human being who comes here every other day to complain about your problems that have nothing to do with me. Your problems are caused by your inability to add, something that I learned in elementary school. It is not my fault that you cannot comprehend the basic skills that you need to balance your checkbook.” I simply have no desire to help anyone who treats me like crapola. But I have to in order to keep my ten-something per hour job that helps me to pay off my student loans that helped me to get into this miserable hell-hole.

Still, I pay the loans and help the customers that yell. I then go home to down a few glasses of wine before I pass out and wake to find myself in the same place as I was the day before. And each summer morning, I stare at my rack of beautiful open toed sexy sandals, and dream about a place where both the sandals and I can be accepted.