So, it’s been a while since I last posted. A long while. But I’m all for moving past my ‘barren’ period if you are. You are? Good. Things have changed recently. I started working – my first real job. It’s nothing much really, just a retail position for a small business in a big department store. It’s good. Well, it’s boring, it’s long hours, it’s hell on my feet, and it’s dealing with ruffled rich snobs who know what they want and want it now. But it pays. Not well, but not bad either – I guess it’s more than I had to begin with, right? The girls I work with are nice – most of them. Some seem politely distant but that’s nothing I can’t handle. The job itself involves a lot of fake laughter, saccharine smiles, and meaningless questions like, “How are you today?”
Christmas time is busy for us and we seem to go through predetermined stages of the day: a few customers in the morning, some “just browsing”, then the lunch rush where everyone wants something all at once, then again a few more customers, and then it’s dead until closing time – not a single sale. The lunch rush is bittersweet. We make the most of our sales during that period but it’s very stressful when I’m serving three customers at once and I realise that we have run out of a particular item on the sales floor and am forced to run in back – which by the way, is upstairs!!
But my monotony does not begin at work, no, it begins an hour before work. On the train. I have never been an avid follower of public transport – never needed to be. Everywhere I went I could drive to but getting to the city every day is just not possible when I share a car with my sister and the cost of parking and fuel would skyrocket – and like I said, I am not paid nearly enough to be able to afford that.
So I begin with a rushed, out-of-breath feeling praying that I will make it in time for the express train which shortens my journey by a whole 15 to 20 minutes. Not much but it’s something. Especially when the majority of my train rides consist of the poor mother who can’t control her wailing children, the unusual man who insists on wearing sun glasses through the tunnels, and the obnoxiously loud teenage girls who relentlessly squeal the three most commonly used words of this generation: “Oh. My. God.”