However, there is one terribly mundane and boring activity standing in my way of writing. This activity is known as a minimum wage, part-time job. You see, it is apparently pertinent to surviving to maintain a financial income in order to purchase, well, everything needed to sustain life. This can be troublesome when one does nothing but write down thoughts all day, and therefore, a stupid job is necessary.
I have never worked in retail before. And after the experience I have had in said area thus far, I doubt I will ever return to selling clothes- at least to rich people at Phipps Plaza. I feel like I fall down the rabbit hole and into some warped Wonderland every time I walk in for my shift. Suddenly, the rules (or lack thereof) applied to my own life change dramatically, and they transform into unrealistic, petty and shallow terms of agreement. The idea of treating people differently, as though they deserve something more, simply because they (or most often, their husbands) just so happen to possess abundant amounts of money irks me endlessly. We don't have customers, we have "clientel." For those of you that are unaware of the difference between these two terms (and don't feel ashamed; if anything, you are a better educated person for that), mere customers are simply provided a service in order to persuade them to buy something. This relationship typically works for stores that do not charge $45 for a "favorite" tank [top]. But for those ritzy, upscale boutiques that use the most luxurious fabrics and can somehow substantiate the need for a $40 t-shirt, the idea of a customer does not work. Instead, we are forced to build the "clientel" relationship with the shoppers: offer them a beverage, put their information in our client books in order to send future thank-you notes and contact them when sales occur.
I cannot accurately convey how ridiculous I find my current job to be.
The regime must be stopped! More to come, mes amis.
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