Several years ago I left my high-paying, high stress, soul sucking corporate job. My reason for doing this was primarily to stay home with my kids. That said, I was miserable and couldn’t face even one more pointless meeting where terms like ‘part and parcel’ and ‘think outside the box’ were tossed around more than Paris Hilton’s new line of push up bras at a tween girls’ slumber party. I fantasized about all the time I would have to write enough best-selling novels to rival Nora Roberts. After an eye-opening year of unemployment, I realized that I am a terrible procrastinator very busy and attentive mother/housekeeper, and had little creative output to show for my time, never mind any income resulting from it, and came to the conclusion that it was time to contribute to the family finances and find a part time job. I knew there was no way I could go back to a 9-5 office job; it just wasn’t me. I wish I could waitress; the tips would be a bonus. But I think at this stage in my life I know my limitations well enough to know I would be fired within the first week for dumping a drink over some jerk’s head.
Enter: The Dreaded Retail Job.
I have been working at a major national department store chain for about two and a half years now and I have a few things to say about working retail. First, it’s the hardest I’ve ever worked for the least amount of pay. I’m on my feet for long hours, I have to schlep heavy boxes of clothing around, and I get to deal with bitchy customers who think you were put on this earth to be their personal doormat.
Secondly, I wouldn’t trade it to go back to my (much) higher paying corporate job, although I would happily trade it for a winning lottery ticket best-selling first novel. Truth be told, I sort of like my retail job. I work with some really cool people that I consider myself enriched to have met. That said, I also work with some really weird quirky interesting people who, on a daily basis, provide me with an abundance of great writing ideas. Then of course there are the many more interesting people in the form of customers who come in and out of my life and leave behind a wealth of material to get my creative juices flowing!
Most nights I come home with stories that my family are forced to listen to, whether they want to or not. So one day it occured to me; maybe I should start blogging about it. At best, someone else would find these stories amusing, but more than likely I will just find a creative outlet to vent some frustration at the end of a particularly taxing shift. Unlike my family, you are not a captive audience and can feel free to tune me out at any point. I promise I won’t be offended. As for my family; don’t get any ideas, this doesn’t apply to you. You’re stuck with me and my boring stories.