Parfait

I've never been very coordinated. I don't know if it's my clown-sized feet or the fact that my legs are abnormally long (two details which make me think that, should I ever be shipwrecked, I could find a sizable piece of driftwood, cut off my legs, and use my oar-sized feet to row myself to safety).

From grade school games of kickball to high school requisite dance classes, I've always been the one to demonstrate his complete inability to be graceful. The latest in my ever-growing list of examples comes from a experience I had while working.

It was time for my lunch and so I opted for a drink and one of the fruit and yogurt parfaits sold at the little snack bar. After purchasing my items I headed upstairs, where our break room is. In less than five minutes, I would no longer be wearing my shirt, and I would have nothing to eat besides the basket of free Jolly Ranchers sitting next to the communal toaster oven.

As I made my way upstairs, I was moving quickly, practically skipping up the stairs, when my foot caught the lip of one of the steps. As I reached out for the railing to catch myself with the three available fingers holding my parfait, the two holding the little plastic cup squeezed, sending yogurt and mixed berries all over my shirt and face and covering the stairwell in a sticky red, white, and purple mess.

I stood there for a moment after it happened, wishing and hoping that, somehow, this was all a huge misunderstanding, as if I were dreaming or I'd somehow ingested some bad mushrooms and was now hallucinating one of the most mortifying experiences of my life. Unfortunately, as the yogurt dripped down my face in fat little globules, I realized that this was no dream. No bad shroom trip.

My first instinct was to try and cover up what had happened. I'd been alone in the stairwell, and so I thought that if I could just find some paper towels, everything might be fine. But as I searched my bosses' offices, I could find nothing. And so I had to swallow my pride and walk into the break room, where three of my coworkers were sitting.

It took them a second to realize that, despite my usual shabby appearance, I looked a little more shabby today, seeing as I was wearing a food item like one of those rejuvenating masks often seen on women in television shows. Their reactions ran the gamut from compassionate ("Oh no! What happened?") to crushing (a bark of laughter), and finally to the outright cruel (the camera shutter sounds of a cell phone taking pictures).

I cleaned myself off, and thanks to the ingenious invention of the undershirt was able to go downstairs, past the scene by the stairs that looked like a deleted clip from a homemade horror movie, and go buy another shirt for work.

So, I am clumsy. I am uncoordinated. I am never eating one of those damned parfaits again.

The Working Life

The other day I was thinking about how great it would be not to have to work. This sentiment is a pretty common one, I'm sure, but the more I thought about it, the more invested in the idea I became. In my head I envisioned a scenario in which I lay on a chaise lounge, sipping Mai Tais somewhere in the neighborhood of eleven in the morning, maybe reading a book or just catching up on the latest cases in Judge Judy's courtroom. As it stands, I'm currently employed in the retail field, which is to say that I get yelled at by people who want important things like toasters and "That one bedspread; my daughter said it's called 'Jasmine' " that happen to be out of stock or, more often than one might believe, completely nonexistent. For the past five years I've worked for a major department store, and for three years prior to that, I spend my after-school hours stocking shelves and ringing up tubs of potato salad at a small-town grocery store.

Eight years of working with the public has taught me one thing about myself: that I hate people.

That might not be entirely true. For every ten middle-aged women trying too hard to pull off the sophisticated demeanor of upper-middle class status by claiming that the pillow I have shown them "does NOT go with their theme," there's always one or two friendly folks who will smile back at me and offer a genuine thank-you. An elderly woman in tight, leopard-print lycra will tell me her preference for fullscreen DVDs, and when I tell her that her chosen movie only comes in widescreen, she shrugs it off and says, "Okay. Thanks, hon." Then, ten minutes later, I'm attacked by a man whose child, it seems, has been taken hostage, and the only way he can save him is to buy ammo for his staple gun, here in the home improvement section the size of a Smart car rather than, say, at the Home Depot across the street.

Having been at my job for several years, I've managed to weasel my way into a position of some responsibility. How I managed to convince anyone that I should be in charge of anything or anyone I'll never know, but having been given a supervisory role in my store means that I get the brunt of most people's aggression. A coworker will encounter an angry customer, and before anyone can get too fired up, they'll jump in and say, "Would you like to speak to my manager?" Basically, offering my head to them on a silver platter.

I can't really blame them, though. I did the exact same thing when I first started.

Often, after explaining to someone that a sign for laundry soap in one spot does not apply to another soap three spots away, I get the privilege of listening to any number of responses. These can range from the litigious "Well, this is FALSE ADVERTISING" to the malicious "You sonofabitch" to the comparatively friendly "This is why I do NOT shop here." On a given day, when I have to crush someone's dream of owning a thirty-dollar slow cooker or telling a grandchild not to climb on the shelves, I'm thought of by any number of people as an asshole.

I've developed a thicker skin, having a few years of insults, curse words, and angry glares under my belt. Still, every once in a while the inevitable confrontation will get to me. In the middle of a woman's rant, I'll sense my heartbeat quicken to something I can actually feel in my neck, the pounding so loud that I can barely make out which four-letter words she's basing her qualifiers on. Thanks to that damned fight or flight response, the part of my brain that would ordinarily make me sound not like an idiot diverts its resources, leaving my mouth numb and giving me a tendency to stumble, buffoon-like, over words a toddler could speak with ease.

In these cases, after I've been left standing victorious or wallowing in defeat, I'll conjure up the image of me resting comfortably, propped up against a mountain of cushions with a drink in my hand. The room around me sits silent with the first words of a novel. Or maybe the television offers its passing promise of more Judge Judy, coming up next. Either way, back in the real world I'll continue on, checking my watch and counting down the hours until my fantasy comes true. If not the one in which I'm free from the bonds of working life, then at least the one, more attainable, where I can clock out and call it a day until tomorrow.